So, I did what any good hypochondriac would do; I called my doctor’s office and emphatically told his staff that I was dying of skin cancer. They reluctantly squeezed me in for yesterday afternoon.
I sat on the table, with pants off and shoes on, as the bald doctor hemmed and hawed over the growth on my leg. After about two minutes of inspecting my pasty extremities, he looked at me blankly and said, “I don’t know.” Which is when I was forced to take the lead.
It was about there that he ended the guessing game—and hold the phone—asked me if I wanted a biopsy. I nearly fell off the table! A doctor offering me a biopsy? There is a god!
Of course I denied, but only after he explained that the said biopsy would leave a huge gouge in my leg for an infection that could probably be treated with a course of anti-fungal cream.
Then he turned the game on me:
“Do you have a cat?”
Odd question but, “Yes.”
“Have you noticed any bald spots in her fur?”
“As a matter of fact, I have.”
“I think you may have ringworm.”
And there it is, the bad news.