Emory Medical, Je T’Aime

Baby moles in a nest.

These are much cuter than mine. Image courtesy of Flickr user Hillbraith.

Yesterday, I went to the dermatologist. I am, to use the scientific term, “moley,” so I go every year or so to have all my moles checked out and, if I’m lucky, numbed and lopped off. It’s very exciting, and has taught me just how much Novocaine stings when injected into not-your-jaw.

So, yesterday the PA is examining me, and we’re at the rather embarrassing part of the exam where this woman is looking at my ass for moles while asking me what major I am, and she started prodding one. She thought about it, measured it, examined it with something that appeared to be a cousin of those clip-on booklight magnifying glasses that old people buy, and stopped. “Well,” she said, “Either it’s grown bigger–which is bad–or it’s, er…. stretched.”

The woman was very diplomatically trying to tell me that I either had cancer or that my ass had gotten large. (I’m pretty sure it’s the latter. Thanks, Lil’s!) She then went on to proscribe me something for acne which I hadn’t actually asked for, which was entertaining. However, body image issues aside, it does seem that I’m cancer-free, so that’s nice.

This is the same PA who, when I first started visiting her at 13, told me I would probably be fine because the moles on my back were “covered with a fine, downy layer of hair.” Which is exactly what every body-conscious middle school girl needs to hear.

After the dermatologist, I went to the dentist. There, the dental hygienist made me watch my gums bleed heavily after she poked them will a metal toothpick in an attempt to, presumably, build character and/or scar me for the next six months.

It’s possible I need to find different doctors.

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