I’ve got lots of moles. I don’t mind the smaller ones. The larger ones have always made me self-conscious - at least since early adolescence, when my body became something awkward and ungainly, secreting smells and sprouting hair and spots, and I started to hate the way my moles marked me out as different - fat, dark targets all over my skin.
In theory I’m one for learning to accept one’s physical form, for loving yourself as you are, rather than paying vast sums to questionable plastic surgery clinics that convince you perfection is but one operation away. I rarely wear aftershave, don’t get my hair cut often, and I’ve long since grown weary of designer tags on clothes. I’d rather spend my one life concentrating on literature and art and the beauty already inherent in the world, in all its flawed crumbling glory, than on manipulating my appearance and persona to win some kind of approval from the countless morons all desperately attempting to win approval for themselves, all of them scrambling towards some unattainable ideal sold to them by brands owned by ugly CEOs getting rich off desperation.
But in practice it’s not always so easy, and when my doctor mentioned the mole removal service, far cheaper than the private clinics - and with a comfortable amount of money in the bank saved from not drinking and working with Steve and a tax rebate - I decided to book myself in.
The doctor who performed the surgery was old, experienced, and awkward in his bedside manner. He spent the majority of the time I was with him explaining that there might be a very small scar, initially red but fading to white, if not fading completely - repeating this over and over, until I told him that I’ve suffered from moderate acne all over my body since I was 15, and one more scar to add to the tapestry wouldn’t cause me even a moment’s thought.
The doctor nodded and looked at me a long time, then coughed and looked away.
As he was preparing his scalpel he asked me to take my top off. I hesitated, and then mumbled whether I could keep it on, “because of the acne.”
“Ahh, yes. Got some self-consciousness, have you?”
I mumbled yes.
“Well, I can probably reach the mole with the neck of your shirt pulled to the side. Yes. That should be fine.”
He turned away and continued fiddling with his tools.
He barely spoke through the rest of the procedure. I lay still, the local anaesthetic numbing my shoulder, doing nothing for my sense of shame, until I became bored, and found myself wondering whether I should make small talk, like at the hairdressers, or whether the doctor needed silence to work. I didn’t want to distract him while he had a scalpel inside my skin.
But it was over after ten or so minutes. The worst part was the noise. I could only feel a faint tugging of the skin in my back, but as the operation was happening close to my ear I could hear every slice into my flesh, every squelching sound, the scrunch of stitches being pulled through the skin, the gently horrendous rustle of the sides of the wound being drawn together. The sounds, untethered from any sensation of pain, made for a surreal, and disquieting, experience.
When it was done the doctor applied a dressing, told me to keep it on for three days, and bundled me out of the examination room with an invoice to pay at reception.
And that was that. The dressing is off now, I’ve got an inch-long line of red skin on my shoulder crisscrossed with dark stitches, what Fran is calling a “mini-Frankenstein”, and an appointment on Monday to have the stitches removed.
Since a couple of kids at school pointed the mole out, and one guy I hated made fun of it repeatedly, I’ve tended towards wearing tighter-necked t-shirts or collared shirts that covered it up. And now finally it’s gone. I don’t know if having it removed was exactly the right course of action, but it’s one I’m pleased with. It’s much easier to not care about your appearance when there’s nothing egregiously different about it.
Anyway, that’s about all I’ve got to say for the moment. I’ve been feeling low again today, but I’ve not let it get in my way. I’ve washed clothes, bought food from Unwrapped, walked to town with Mike, done writing, played Switch, and cooked a healthy tea. Got an open shift first thing tomorrow, joy of joys, so I’ll leave this here.
Take care x
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