As promised, I will always strive to be as honest as you can handle.

My first dermatologist appointment in May 2022 still lingers in my mind—a pivotal moment that forever changed how I prepare for such visits, including my choice of "appointment" underwear.

That day, I went to work before the appointment. It was warm, so I opted for my classic white linens—a timeless and airy look.

I didn’t know what to expect during the appointment. In the back of my mind, I assumed it would be cosmetic: a quick glance, perhaps an agreement with my GP’s diagnosis, and that would be it.

When it was my turn, I sat down with the dermatologist ("Dermy," as I like to call him). We discussed my history of sun exposure, including sunbed use. Then came the moment: I was asked to pull up my linen pants to expose the area of concern.

The Dermy pulled out what I could only describe as a "bionic eye," examined the site, and jotted down some notes. He then said, "I’m not entirely sure. I’d like to get a second opinion."

Enter a younger male dermatologist and a female nurse. After exchanging a few glances, one of them asked, "Could you step behind the curtain and remove your clothing, leaving your underwear on, please?"

Oh no. This was the moment I realised I hadn’t fully thought this through.

Under my pristine white linens, I had chosen nude-colored underwear—practical but far from flattering. It wasn’t just plain; it was the epitome of boring: a large, seamless, hold-it-all-in "granny" pair. To make matters worse, it matched a similarly uninspiring "hammock" bra. No lace, no ribbons, no embellishments—just sad functionality.

The shame was real.

When I stepped out from behind the curtain, I felt like a potato being presented for inspection. Three strangers stared at me, armed with their magnifying tools, ready to scrutinise every inch of my body. A full-body check followed, which, while thorough and appreciated, left me regretting my lack of preparation for such a scenario.

I stood there, silent and mortified, unable to think of anything to break the tension or distract from the awkwardness. It felt like an eternity before I heard the words, "You can get dressed now." Like some kind of superhero, I managed to dress at lightning speed, eager to reclaim a shred of my dignity.

The lead consultant informed me they weren’t certain what the lesion was but recommended a biopsy and removal to rule out cancer. They could do it right then and there. The mention of cancer was jarring, though I still naively thought, "Skin cancer? It’s probably nothing serious." I had no idea how significant this was at the time.

In the next room, I finally found some relief—a gown. Perhaps it was offered to restore my dignity, or maybe for their own sanity after the sight of my unfortunate choice in underwear. Either way, it was a welcome reprieve.

The procedure was quick. After administering a local anesthetic, they offered me the choice to look away while they worked. Oddly curious, I chose to watch. It was a surreal experience—seeing someone use a scalpel to remove a circular section of my leg while feeling absolutely nothing. Honestly, I was relieved to see it go; the lesion was as unattractive as my underwear.

Once the procedure was done, I headed back to work, hoping I’d never have to see them again. At the same time, I couldn’t help but wonder if my "nudes" might become a topic of conversation in their staff room.

Now, all I could do was wait—six weeks for the biopsy results. Despite the gravity of their decision to remove the lesion, I didn’t fully process the seriousness of it at the time. I’ve since read stories of both GPs and dermatologists misdiagnosing cases, sometimes failing to remove concerning areas. In hindsight, I’m thankful they acted decisively.

After this experience, I invested in proper "appointment" underwear.