You’d been with me for as long as I can remember. When I was five, you were the “bug poop” under my arm the boy down the street made fun of me for. When I was fourteen, you were the annoying blotch that peaked out of every bikini top I tried on. When I was sixteen, you were the reason the first boy I ever
thought I loved called me sexy. You were my favorite little piece of myself…perfectly placed so showing you off in a dress felt flirtatious without being overtly risqué.
In college I noticed you were changing…becoming darker and appearing to split in two. But, since you weren’t a zit or a rash, I (stupidly) ignored you on my visits to the dermatologists. Until this fall. Fed up with 30 second Dr.’s visits I’d wait 2 hours for, I switched doctors. A self-professed “neurotic” Mr. New Doctor insisted on doing a full body check, given my family’s history of skin cancer. And there you were.
Your trick was up. With the words “uh-oh” and “pre-cancerous” it was decided you’d be “snipped off” in early January.
Since you were removed I’ve felt strangely incomplete…not to mention itchy-burny and convinced I’ve contracted MERSA. How could you have been secretly plotting to kill me from beneath my bra? As i signed the form to have you sent out for lab testing, I thought: yours was the worst sort of betrayal…the sort they write Lifetime movies involving infidelity and murder about. I was Valerie Bertinelli, deeply in love with a spouse who made her feel beautiful…but had also taken a contract out on her life.