Warned

So this summer my brother came to visit and wore a swim shirt in the pool. My Mom and I laughed at his white complexion and teased him about the shirt. He mumbled something about skin cancer. My retort was something to the effect of, You can never be too rich, too thin or too tan! (Or too obnoxious apparently) and added something about Well, we're all going to die of something anyway!
(Isn't that what smokers say?)

Then this summer I got lots of comments about my rockin tan. And I'll admit to a few spray tans here and there but the bulk of that hard earned sunkissed bronzed epidermis was all handcrafted outside in Singapore. Love you, tropical jungle. Muah!

And this summer in the freezing North called Norway I noticed the birthmark on the side of my face. The mark I have had since birth. Had changed. A lot.
It was big! And browner! And fucking black in the center.
Cue in the queasiness but also the fun nights with friends and the wine and cocktails and the fuck it all attitude.
Then marinate it with some OTT fears of flying and said black hole birthmark got pushed to the back burner, so to speak.
Except we landed in Singapore at 5am on a Sunday morning and by 11:00 I was at the local GP. [God love the Chinese work ethic! 7 day work weeks! Our local GP open on a Sunday (ahem, Norway) with no after-hours fees (ahem, US).]
Oh. She said. Oh.
She handed me an envelope. A referral letter.
He works with Caucasians. He is the specialist in skin cancer.
I'm sorry... what????
It's a government hospital, meant for Singaporeans and PRs, but I will phone Monday morning to get you priority. You'll need it. (Back to that thick Western direct Asian way!!!)
Ffffffuuucccccccckkkkkkkkkkk.

Okay, okay.

Got in today. The doctor is called Martin! (Love him already!)
I sit down. I am nervous.
He busts out his light and tape measure.

Oh dear, he says. Well, we'll take the history anyway.

So I divulge in my secret quest to stay tan to make me look thinner as well as keep me happy in this sometimes fucked up expat life I lead (I didn't really get that deep- honest).

Now, he says, sometimes people get offended by this but I have to ask about your heritage.

I relax. Oh no worries! I know the world doesn't always like us, but I'm American! Big grin. This is easy. Whew.

No, like where are you from?

Oh, I am Irish and German and maybe a bit British...

He nearly falls out of his seat. You're Irish? And you've used a sunbed? His eyes are popping. Ouch!

Was it something I said?

No, no! I think I am more German! It's just the Irish side is more vocal! We know more about them! We speak the language! I'm German! I'm German!

He's switching between Chinese and Singlish and muttering about risk groups and cancer rates and statistics.

Aaaah!!! I'm German! I swear it!!!

Now he's on me about my kids. You know that sun damage is cumulative??? Are you telling me you just bought a house with a pool?

Oh dear.

So he had planned to just scrape some cells and biopsy them, but now the whole mole is coming off and being Fed Exed to the lab. Great. He'll biopsy later. The mole is going now.

You know you will have a big scar, okay?

Jesus H. You've just put the fear of God in me and I've got a black hole growing on my jawline. TAKE THE DAMN THING OFF. (And WTF? Between 2 C sections and a bunion removal my body has morphed into one big scar anyway. Sheesh.)

We proceed. I am ill. It hurts. Then he wants to show the frickin nasty thing to me!

Go away! I mutter. I want to vomit.

I go back next week. Hopefully the Jabba-the-Hut-like growth is benign.

Anyway, it is off.

And I keep looking at pictures of Nicole Kidman and trying to tell myself that alabaster eggshell white skin is the new tan. Or black. Or cancer free.

Holy fuck.