The warmth of my doctor during a nervous visit almost brought me to tears | Nova Weetman
She remained still and present and let me talk about my partner dying till I was done. On the tram home I felt as if I’d unburdened myself of a great weight
Since a dear friend died of melanoma at the age of 33, I have semi-religiously visited a dermatologist to have my skin checked. Over the years I’ve had the odd mole removed and some sunspots treated, but nothing too serious. The dermatologist I see tolerates my skin neuroses. She jokes gently that I do not need to return so often and yet I come anyway. Twice a year, every year.
Our relationship is a quiet one. While she draws the blue curtain, I undress down to my bra and undies, leaving the rest of my clothes in a messy pile on the chair. I lie down on the bed, let her scan each mole with her magnifier and wait to be told that she is done, and I can get dressed. Sometimes she has questions about parenting because her children are still in primary school while mine are not. But usually it’s a speedy process and I’m in and out in less than 15 minutes.