I recently found out that I have 979 mole or skin markings on my body, my blood pressure is “excellent” and my grip strength is in the top 10 percent of women aged 40-45 (it’s true that I have never met a jar I couldn’t open). The hottest ticket in London at the moment is not Cate Blanchett in The Seagull but a body scan that can safeguard your future health—and I went to check it out for myself.
Neko Health, a Swedish start-up backed by Daniel Ek of Spotify, opened its clinic in Marylebone, London, at the end of last year—and has a waiting list of more than 100,000 people all desperate to try out what is being hailed as the future of medicine. It costs $380, the whole thing takes an hour and it promises early detection of chronic diseases such as diabetes, cardiovascular irregularities and some cancers by checking the overall health of your heart and arteries, the moles on your body, and your blood sugar and cholesterol levels. In January the company raised $260 million in funding and has plans to launch in the United States.
As I make my way there on the train I feel nervous, as if I am about to take an exam that I haven’t studied for. In Neko’s first year running the body scan in Stockholm, 14 percent of individuals needed further medical attention or monitoring.
Everyone wants to be healthy, of course, but I’ve noticed that my health anxiety has definitely increased since I had my son almost three years ago. The thought of not being around to watch him grow up, or having my capabilities of parenting him reduced by serious illness, is terrifying. I make sure I attend any health checks I’m invited to by the National Health Service, such as cervical screenings, and I always see my doctor if I’m concerned about something. I am also 42, the sort of age when people start to really think about the bodies they’ve been lugging around (and not in a “can I still wear a bikini?” kind of way).
I wait in Neko’s Tiffany blue-colored reception with a mixture of excitement and dread. But everyone there is friendly and relaxed, and in my personal dressing room I put on a Hay bathrobe and some ugly footwear—which I later discover are Nike Air Jordan Hex slippers — before entering a butter yellow room that could be from the set of a sci-fi movie, albeit a chic one, with light jazz playing.
First is the full body scan, for which you stand up. It is kind of like what you do at the airport except you’re wearing only underwear and there’s a soothing automated voice of a woman rather than an angry security officer. It takes a few seconds and then you’re invited to lie down on the bed which, because of the sterilized surroundings, makes it feel as if you’re attending your own post-mortem. Here they hook you up for an ECG and stick monitors all over to collect information about your circulation. They scan your wrists and ankles with lasers to check your brachial index, a blood pressure measurement. Then they take a blood sample and test your eye pressure to search for early signs of glaucoma.
Next, a doctor comes in and maps your moles, meaning they go all over your body checking all your markings with a magnifying glass. You can opt out of this bit if you like; you have to stand in just your underwear while the doctor investigates your skin from all over and they know some people will be uncomfortable with this.
Since giving birth I’m very easy about being in various states of undress in front of medical professionals, so much so that I actually remove my robe too early and they have to tell me to put it back on. Oops. This was probably the one I was most intrigued about as I’m very fair and am paranoid about moles, something I’ve been to the doctor about before.
After the checks you go through to a final room where your AI-assisted results are already waiting for you—it’s that fast. Everything is laid out on a big screen, including your revolving digital avatar, which will make you feel as if you’re about to take on an intergalactic mission for the third time that day, and a doctor talks you through it all for about 15 minutes.
My results come back without any major issues and the doctor tells me there is nothing concerning, although they do send off photographs of three of my moles to a skin specialist for further investigation.
There have been some accusations that these private health checks actually burden the NHS because people then unnecessarily bother them with some small piece of information that is picked up in a scan. While I can see how this might happen, I think it is possible that you can leave more confident about your health, too.
I walk out of the clinic feeling I know more about my body and health than I have at any point during my entire 42 years. Mostly I feel relieved that things like diabetes and heart complications (both of which my late father had issues with) are, for now, at bay. But isn’t it a shame—and a tad dystopian—that it costs $380 for the privilege?
Gillian Orr is a London-based writer, editor, and brand consultant
