The mole in the mirror

It's a Tuesday morning in September, and you're getting out of the shower.

In the mirror you catch sight of the mole on your left shoulder. You've had it for as long as you can remember. In March, drying yourself after a swim, you thought it looked different. It seemed a bit bigger, perhaps, and darker on one side than the other. You looked at it for a while, twisting to see. You thought, "I should get that looked at."

That was six months ago. You look at it again now. Is it bigger than in March? You can't tell. You've no photograph to compare. It might be exactly the same. You pull your shirt on, and as the collar goes over it the thought goes with it. You'll ring the surgery this week, when things calm down.

You've had that thought perhaps thirty times since March. Each time it has been followed quite quickly by another thought, and then by a small relief. It's probably nothing, since you've had it for ever. Ringing at eight means half an hour on hold. They're run off their feet, and you'd feel a fool going in with a mole. Work is mad this month. And under all of those is one that doesn't quite get put into words, which is "what if it isn't nothing?"

Then the shirt goes on and you get on with the day. Most days you don't think about it at all. But once every week or two it turns up uninvited. It comes when you see a headline, or when a colleague mentions a friend's diagnosis, or at ten past three in the morning for no reason at all. At ten past three it doesn't feel like nothing. You lie there and promise yourself you'll ring in the morning. In the morning it's light, and it's probably nothing again.

You may not have a mole. Yours might be a lump, a cough that's gone on too long, blood where there shouldn't be any, a tooth that twinges with cold drinks, or a change in a habit of the body that you've been explaining away. It might not be a symptom at all. It might be an envelope. There's a bowel screening kit that's been in the bathroom cabinet since June. There's the letter about a smear test, the text from the surgery offering a health check, and the dentist you last saw when your youngest was in primary school.

I'll use a few terms. The thing is whatever you've noticed or been invited to, and haven't dealt with. The putting off is the habit of thinking "I should" and then not doing it. The safe feeling is the sense that while nobody has looked, nothing is wrong. The call is the act of booking, whether it's by phone, an online form or a walk to the reception desk.

The putting off has some regular features. This list is my own observation and not a research finding.

It begins with a true thought. "I should get that looked at" is correct. You've never disagreed with it.

A reason arrives within seconds, and it's always a respectable one. You're busy, or the surgery is, or it's probably nothing. The reason is never "I'm frightened".

A small relief follows. You've settled the matter for the moment and the day can go on.

And it comes back. The putting off doesn't get rid of the thought. The thought goes away for a week or so and then returns.

Before chapter 2, if you're willing, make a list. Write down everything of this kind that's outstanding. Include things you've noticed and haven't had checked, appointments you know are overdue, and invitations you haven't answered. Beside each, write roughly how long it's been. You don't have to do anything about the list yet. I'd guess there's more than one thing on it, and that the oldest has been there longer than you'd have said.