Pieces of you
I’m standing in my underwear on the 20th floor of a suburban office tower, arms outstretched. Sun streams through the window. Fluorescent light falls from panels in the ceiling.
Sharper light beams towards me. My skin, looking paler than ever under all this brightness, is getting a thorough going-over. Every square inch of epidermis. The soles of my feet. The webbing between my toes. My palms. The contours of my ears. My scalp, armpits, limbs, torso, back, eyelids and nose. My décolletage and backside. It’s full-body skin-check time, a ritual for many Australians. Andrew Ming, my highly qualified dermatologist, is as affable as ever. I’ve been seeing him for years and he greets me with, “How are you?”
The surroundings are familiar and my visit routine, but I feel a tight-chested, dry-mouthed sense of dread every time. We chat as I undress, but Dr Ming goes quiet as he puts on his special glasses to begin the examination. This is an annual appointment, but I know his parting words will be, “Come back if you’re worried about anything at all.” Often I do. Because I am. During the check-up, Andrew
