Yesterday I visited the dermatologist yet again to have what I think is another basal cell carcinoma removed from my left shoulder (history of the first basal cell carcinoma can be found here, here, and here, and if that doesn’t interest you then perhaps this Google image search for puppies will). I won’t know for sure whether or not this spot was cancer until later this week, early next week, but it looked and acted exactly like the other spot, all red and brash and wearing jeans cut so low that you could see that it had FEISTY bedazzled across its thong.
I noticed this spot well over a year ago, but because it sits right on the tip of my collarbone I thought maybe it was just a patch of skin that my bra strap was continually rubbing raw. And then about six months ago it changed colors from light pink to a deeper pink, and in the last month couple of months it has doubled in size. And that was the biggest red flag, that instead of clearing up it was instead changing and growing. Which means I had to stop making any more excuses for it and face the idea of having yet another chunk of skin dug out of my body. Not that I am particularly vain, I mean, I farted loudly a few days ago when I leaned over to pick up a gallon of milk at the grocery store, and didn’t even realize it until Jon fell over the shopping cart laughing. And I was all, what? And he was all, dude, you are one step away from carrying around a plastic cup because you’re too lazy to walk to the bathroom.
But these mounting scars are really beginning to annoy me, and I think it’s compounded by the fact that I just feel so stupid. This is all entirely my fault. I could have prevented all of it had I not disregarded years and years of warning. It’s just, there I was, all Southern with big hair and crushes on my cousins, thinking about how cute I’d look with a tan. And COME ON, but that’s just unjustifiably dumb, because have you seen the color of my skin? I cannot tan. Not possible. But I had a lot of dumb aspirations when I young, like one day wanting to convert Rocky Balboa to Mormonism so we could get married in the temple.
The experience I had with my last dermatologist was, how do I say this without sounding bitter, BEYOND NUTS. So I took a recommendation from a friend and scheduled an appointment with a new doctor who works out of the University of Utah. I had totally spaced the fact that University hospital is a teaching hospital, and suddenly there I was, naked under a backless hospital gown surrounded by seven strange people, when the doctor asked me to stand up so he could take a look at the back of my legs. I wanted to apologize right then to everyone in the room because they didn’t know this yet, but they were about to be exposed to The World’s Smallest Ass.
And I’m trying to concentrate on the fact that I am here because of CANCER, but all I can think about is how these people are dealing with my ass. Are they concerned that something else may be wrong with me to have caused such an ass? Because no one is saying anything, and I’m thinking it’s because they are afraid that if they open their mouths all that will come out is a bunch of horrified screaming.
Finally, after the longest backside inspection I’ve ever experienced outside of marriage, the doctor has me sit back down so that he can get started on my shoulder. It’s then that one of the students shakes her head and says, wow, she’s never seen someone so young have so many of these types of spots, and I wanted to say, really? Because I wasn’t feeling bad enough ABOUT MY SMALL ASS. Now you’re telling me it’s not just my butt that looks like it belongs to an 80-year-old.