As middle age continues its merciless and insane march on me, a new problem has raised its repulsive head.
Skin tags. They’re rather unattractive things, at the best of times.
The one on my neck was absolutely repulsive. And so big that it was like a second head. Or at least I thought so.
I’ve been walking around for weeks, holding my hand up to my throat, in an attempt to cover it, and looking like an alarmed lady from an old film.
And wearing scarves that I’ve grown quite fond of really, and might continue to wear in happier days to come.
I know that everyone noticed it. They were all very nice and didn’t mention it but it was unmissable.
The last time I saw my doctor, after I’d put him through my usual litany of ailments, I told him about the skin tag. Like everyone else, I’m sure he’d noticed it, but he was probably too worried about his patients who are actually sick to think about it.
He had a look at it and told me not to worry, that it was harmless. I hadn’t been worried about that. I told him that as far as I was concerned it was more noticeable than my nose (not dainty itself), and that I wanted it gone.
He seemed surprised, maybe he doesn’t consider me to be a person with a neck that needs to be unblemished.
Anyway, he told me to let him know the next time I was going to be in his surgery, and he’d deal with it.
On the Friday, I rang his receptionist. I gave her my name, and told her that Monday was the day I’d be attending for my surgery.
I’m only messing, I didn’t say that, I just told her to let the doctor know I’d be there.
She seemed bewildered. So I let her know that I’d been told to give some notice, because the GP would need a local anaesthetic and something to cut the damn thing with. I tried to make a joke about him possibly needing a crash cart as well, but she had absolutely no sense of humour and started reassuring me that it wouldn’t come to that.
My mother was with us for the weekend, exerting her bad influence and generally encouraging me to behave badly (see last blog for details) and she was staying until the morning of the doctor's visit. She decided to come with me, just so I’d have someone to pity me when I arrived out with the ludicrous white tape holding a pad of cotton wool onto my throat. Or in case I needed a blood donor. Joking, again.
Anyway, in I went, and told him why I was there. He knows I have a penchant for the dramatic, so he was very business like, and told me to get straight up on his doctor table yoke.
I think I got confused between an anaethetic wipe and an antiseptic wipe. I know that doesn't really make sense, but I hadn't even thought about the possibility of an injection. But he came at me with a needle. He told me that I’d feel a little jab, which I did.
In order to encourage him, and be supportive, I told him that it really hadn’t hurt at all. But he’d only just put the needle under the skin. While he tried to give me the stupid injection, I started feeling a bit anxious and unhappy. So I started talking to him. I was sort of blathering on about nothing in particular, and he had to tell me to stop, since he had a needle in my throat at the time.
That shut me up.
I didn’t feel the skin tag actually being cut off, it was fine. But the white tape and cotton wool did me no favours, especially with my double chin resting as it was on the little white pad. It looked like it was holding my head on.
And my advisor (mother) was incorrect. He didn't just snip it off with a scissors or something. It was a little scalpel.
Truly I am brave.
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