While I was writing on a deadline for Mount Holyoke this morning I had a distraction: I kept looking at the spot on my other arm and wondering if it needs to be dealt with.
I took a picture that I was going to send to my dermatologist, but after I sent her the last one, she said it looked OK when I saw that it really wasn't, which is why I took me and my right arm to her.
I am not going to post this or any other gross photo because I don't think it's necessary and also when other people do it I have to hold my hand over the photo even though they are probably just trying to be realistic.
The doctor who did my Mohs surgery had looked at the spot on my left arm and said it looked OK, but my squamous-cell radar is reading otherwise. I'm not sure why I didn't ask the doctor who biopsied the spot on my right arm a week ago to look at my left arm except that I thought it was OK, but now that the biopsy on the right arm was positive, I am changing my mind.
I called my fiend Bernarda, the office manager who always gets me in, and asked if she could do it again. I know she is not a scheduler so on the voice message I apologized and said I hoped she wasn't sick of me. But she can at least hold the smooth rock I gave her last time with the word Breathe on it. I think I need one for myself.
In the past I have tried to get a dermatology appointment locally and have been told sure, we'll see you in a couple of months. It's easier to go to Boston, where they know me and will get me in.
Speaking of gross, here's an idea: I could mail my left arm in and save myself the trouble although then I'd have some other even bigger problem.
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