Every six months, for this reason, I visit my dermatologist. He's a very nice man even if he looks twelve, and we chat as he scratches my skin and inspects my moles, because I do get moles. I've had three moles removed. Then he gives me my prescription for Zyrtec and that's that.
The appointment was for 2:30. I got there at 2:20, which is a new record for me, given that I normally get there late. I sat there in the waiting room and waited and waited and waited. Two hours later, having finished my book (Anthony Bourdain's "A Cook's Tour", highly recommended) and read through the baby magazine, and done some work on the next snippet, my name finally gets called. He does apologize, we chat and he wants to inspect the mole he'd removed this past spring. That site was doing fine, but he was worried about an earlier mole, one someone else had done. It repigmented and darker than it had been.
It's gone now. I have stitches on my back. And a bandage. And tomorrow morning, my husband will once again be doing the peroxide and antibiotic routine. In two weeks, the stitches will be out, and the biopsy will be done. I'm not worried.
Such was my day.