Iam listening to hold music on speakerphone while clutching a piece of paper with key bits of information scrawled on it. I have been listening to the music for some time, with a mounting sense of dread. Finally the music changes to ringing. After 10 rings someone from the dermatology department answers and asks how they can help. “Yeah, hi,” I say, clearing my throat. I explain that I have been recommended for minor surgery to remove a lesion on my back, that I have recently received notice of an appointment, and that I would like – here I pause to inhale – to investigate the possibility of changing it. “We’re quite busy,” says the woman on the other end, in a tone that suggests I might have heard something about that on the news. “I understand,” I say. “If it’s not possible, then of course …” “Can I just ask your reason for wanting to change it?” she says. “I’m supposed to be going on holiday,’ I say. I wince, looking down at the piece of paper in my hand, where I have clearly written “say it’s for work”. “Well, you tried,” my wife says later when I tell her about the call. “She said the next available appointment was in November,” I say. “Best to get it done,” my wife says. “Yeah, but she also said this appointment isn’t even the surgery. This is just a consultation.” “I’ll change your flight,” my wife says. “You can come on the Wednesday.” I’m not sure how I’m going to feel after the consultation, because no one has explained to me exactly how big a deal I should be making of the thing on my back. The letter I received in May, the one where I first read the words “low grade skin cancer”, wasn’t even addressed to me, but to my GP, and posted on my secure patient’s portal. It felt as if I’d intercepted it. The letter sent me into a spiral of worry, but when I told my brother about it he made me feel like an amateur for still being on my first basal cell carcinoma. He pointed to the spots on himself where he’d had them removed. On Saturday my wife goes off on holiday. I sit in my office, watching a squirrel eat my tomatoes. Early Tuesday morning I go to hospital, where after a short wait I am escorted to a small, brightly lit room. The doctor invites me to sit in a chair. A bead of sweat runs down my ribs inside my shirt. “So,” he says. “Are you on any blood-thinning medications?” “Nope,” I say. “Any electronic implants?” he says. I shake my head, thinking: these are weird questions for a consultation. Later that afternoon, I ring my wife. “It turns out it was the surgery after all,” I say. “What?” she says. “Did you mention you’d been misinformed?” “Once I’d acted surprised about being operated on, it became very hard to dispel the impression I was a moron.” “How long did it take?” she says. “Half an hour,” I say. “But he was teaching someone the procedure, so I learned a lot about mattress stitching.” “Well, it’s good it’s done,” she says. “The thing is,” I say, “I’m not allowed to fly.” There is a long pause. “That’s a blow,” she says. Forty-eight hours later I persuade the middle one – the only one home – to remove the dressing in accordance with instructions. “Ugh!” he says. “It’s nasty.” “Is it?” I say. “Take a picture.” He takes two pictures with my phone and hands it back, allowing me to examine my wound for the first time. “What are you talking about?” I say. “That’s a textbook mattress stitch.” But the second photo – a wider shot with my shoulders in it – makes me realise for the first time just how big a chunk has been taken out of me. It is alarming, and also somehow satisfying. That evening I forward the second photo to my wife, who rings back almost immediately. “It’s huge!” she says. “I can see why you’re not meant to fly.” “I guess they take a bit extra, for safety,” I say. “Everyone here is very impressed,” she says. “Good,” I say, thinking: everyone? On Saturday my wife returns from holiday. On Sunday the oldest one comes over for lunch. “How was your operation?” he says. “Fine,” I say. “Do you want to see my scar?” “I’ve seen your scar,” he says. “Everyone’s seen your scar.” “Everyone?” I say. “What do you mean?” “I ran into two people in the street on the way here,” he says. “And they’d both seen it.”