The flyer was in my mail box, featuring a blurred photo of a young woman looking in the mirror. I looked at the back and recognised the name of the dermatologist I visited a year ago when I noticed the sudden appearance of a tiny spot on my face. One can never be too careful when it comes to skin cancers. It had to be a yearly reminder for a check up.
I put the flyer on my desk with the rest of the bills then picked it up again. Odd. It had nothing to do with an annual check up. It was an invitation for Botox injections. There I was thinking it was a genuine preventative care reminder and it’s telling me that my fine lines can be easily erased with toxic injections and as a bonus, I would receive the Doc’s own brand of face cream. My ire metre went off scale.
The specialist to whom I was referred came highly recommended. But when I entered the reception, something raised an eyebrow, but not a few fine lines. The entire practice was adorned with young, skinny blondes wearing clothes that are way too fashionable for a medical practice. Then the Doc came out and called for me. Another tall, skinny blonde, with long hair that had been styled into flirtatious curls that morning, wearing a tight pair of pants, and a three quarter sleeve shirt unbuttoned low enough to reveal her size D cup breasts on her willowy figure. “I’m Doctor Sasha Beautiful,” she said, with emphasis on doctor.
The consultation took less than 20 minutes, and that included the uncomfortable removal of the offending part. But not after I was given a stern talk down for having tanned skin (it was the end of summer) and words such as “your skin is so damaged, it’s too late”, then being subjected to the not-so-inane chatter between Dr Beautiful and Nurse Bimbette about the Doc’s (another) impending weekend away to her rural interstate property with prized horses. Nausea was setting in quite nicely, thank you, but not from the local anaesthetic.
A week later, after an agonising wait for pathology results because she thought it highly likely to be of nasty variety, I called for the results. “It was just a mole, but so unusual to see them in someone your age.” Someone my age? I had told her my grandmother had them way into her late eighties.
Recounting the story to male friends and colleagues made them sing the same chorus. “All right! When can I go there?” I rolled my eyes with no intention of returning. I mentioned it to my hairdresser in conversation. The girl next to me perked up and told me how her male doctor, a general practitioner, told her she needed Botox because she was getting on in years. She left the practice in tears. Her two months old baby had been keeping her up late, and she had just turned thirty years old.
Women of all ages have way too many insecurities that the media constantly feeds upon, creating problems in some areas where there should be none. The last hurdle we need is the greedy medical field, with its supposedly trusted medical practitioners preying on our vulnerabilities.
Whilst I am not immune to physical insecurities, fine lines are not my concern, thanks to good genetics and a healthy lifestyle. And when life begins to etch its marks on my visage, I know the perfect drug than can erase years off any person’s face: laugher.
See Something You’d Rather Not?
I do. As plain as the mole on the next face. Your shoddy medical ethics.
