The Dreaded Doctor Appointment

A few weeks ago, about the time my friend Betty invited me to Columbus for the weekend, the skin around a mole on my right shoulder started to “itch.” I didn’t think much about it at first, but then every couple of days or so, the itching would return.

Now, the thing about me is I subscribe to the school of thought that says, "if I ignore it, it will go away.” But it didn't go away. In fact, the itching grew more persistent until a couple of Sunday nights ago when I ran my finger along the edge of the mole…it appeared crusty…and a piece of it actually broke off and the area bled…just a little. So, now I can no longer ignore it, right? One would think so, but still I resisted until Wednesday of that week.

Then the mole itself started to radiate pain, not a lot, just enough to be…annoying. Why is it that, when you’re single, things like this always show up on a part of your body that you cannot visually examine yourself. When the pain started, I asked Angie – a work colleague – to look at it. (Thank God it wasn't in a "delicate" area. I mean, there is only so much one can ask of a friend, you know?) She said the skin was inflamed and the mole itself didn’t “look right” and that I needed to make a doctor’s appointment.

Ah, call the doctor. The three most dreaded words in the English language…at least for me. They rank right up there with "eat your spinach" and "it's not you" and "this won't hurt" and...well, you fill in the blank. There are few things in this life I look forward to less than a trip to the doctor. Mainly because, being a very large woman, most physicians take one look at me and instantly decide that all my troubles could be cured if I…just lost some weight. Now, why didn’t I think of that? I firmly believe that if I walked into a doctor’s office with a freakin’ gunshot wound, the arrogant doctor would look down from his/her lofty perch and tell me the bleeding would stop if I…just lost some weight. But I digress.

Perhaps even more stressful than the actual face-to-face confrontation with the doctor, however, is obtaining that elusive appointment to start with. So, the Russian Roulette game of selecting a dermatologist began. First, I had to check with our insurance provider to find a physician who was in our “plan” or pay the difference myself. After maneuvering through the maze of possibilities on the United Health Care website, I finally found a list of “in-network” dermatologists.

After reviewing the coveted list, I found a name I recognized, so I decided to start there first. Now, I have firsthand experience with trying to make an appointment with a dermatologist and was fully expecting to be told that the first available appointment would be six months down the road. “November,” I was told. Okay, so only three months, but still longer than I wanted to wait. I mean, by November, I am fairly certain the gnarly thing on my shoulder would have transformed itself into something akin to a sizable "hump" and not looking forward to being called “Quasimodo” by my work colleagues, I pressed on.

I mentioned that I had been a patient at one time of Dr. Greenwald, but that was so long ago…six years, in fact…I doubted that I would still be in their system. The very nice voice on the other end of the phone volunteered to check and a couple of moments later, she announced that…wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles…my name was still in their records. The next available appointment for Dr. Greenwald was the following Wednesday. Happily, my wait went from three months to one week. Our health system, folks…it’s easier to die than try to fight your way through it.

Anyway, the long and the short of it is…I went to the dermatologist this past Wednesday. I got there early because I knew I would have to update some paperwork. My appointment was at 9:30a.m. They called me back to the exam room at 9:15a.m., which is unheard of in the medical profession. I had to wait…maybe…all of five minutes before the doctor walked in. (Okay, about this time, I’m thinking I need to check outside for any telltale sign of the Four Horseman approaching because this just does not happen.)

So, Dr. Greenwald walked in, we exchanged a few pleasantries, then got down to the crux of the matter; i.e., the reason for my presence in her exam room. She took one look at the offending mole and assured me that she was ninety-nine percent sure…it was nothing. Meaning…not skin cancer. (Okay…time to breathe a sigh of relief. I’m not dying today…well…at least not from a melanoma.)

Fifteen minutes later, the mole on my shoulder had been removed, along with a “blood blister” on my chin...so now I only slightly resemble the witch from "Hansel And Gretel"…and I was on my way back to the office. Not a bad experience insofar as doctor appointments go.

And the best part…Dr. Greenwald didn't tell me I could have avoided the whole putrid mole condition if...I just lost some weight.