Wednesday 18th October 1989 After breakfast 08.15
Malignant melanoma! I knew it. The worst kind of skin cancer. I should never have listened to my Dad.
“It’s not even a mole, Dennis. It’s just a freckle.” That’s what he had said when he looked at it at Easter.
Since then it had doubled in size. It was itching. This morning, oh my God, it was bleeding! That’s a danger sign, a red flag! To top it all, my doctor, Dr Lewis, was on holiday.
“It is exactly the same size, Dennis, 3 mm by 4 mm.”
“You should be wearing your glasses, Dad.”
“No, I can see perfectly well.”
He picked up a tissue and moistened it. He rubbed the ‘freckle’.
He looked at the tissue. “Just as I thought, Dennis. It’s not blood. It’s a tiny speck of Mum’s bolognaise sauce. She is putting too much tomato puree into it these days. I have tried to tell her.”