I had this thing on the back of my shoulder, which a dermatologist at an NHS hospital looked at. He was brisk, verging on brusque. He said it was either one complicated-sounding thing or the other, but I distinctly heard the word “carcinoma” in there somewhere. He said I’d have to come back and have it taken out, and then they would see whether or not it was a carcinoma. Great. When? We’ll write to you, he said. I suggested that, if cancer was a possibility, then a bit of hurry-up might be called for. To which he said: “Oh, it won’t make any difference now. The only thing that would have made any difference was if you’d come sooner.” To me, this sentence argued against itself somewhat. Time was either of the essence, or it wasn’t. I even flirted with the idea of interpreting “won’t make any difference now” as his way of saying I was doomed anyway.
I called the dermatologist I had previously seen about it privately, and she told me not to be silly, it would be fine. A GP I know said the same. I thanked my lucky stars that I’m privileged to have access to such people.
