“Wow. You sure bleed a lot.”A few weeks ago, I went in for a skin cancer screening, to the only dermatologist in town my insurance covers. Observing my tan lines, she asked in a predictably scornful tone: “What do you do outside?” When I told her about the surfing and the running, she delivered the expected, “Tsk, tsk.” Then she zoomed right in on my face. Because of my family’s history with skin cancer and my own dangerous outdoor lifestyle, the new little bumps on my nose and my chin would need to be biopsied. I paid for the office visit and scheduled myself for the procedure.
I only thought about it again when my friend Winnie mentioned that she’s having a growth on her face (as small as anything I’ve got) removed by a plastic surgeon. Since it’s right in the middle of her forehead, she said, she didn’t want to mess around. I thought maybe that was a little extreme. Why not just have a dermatologist do it?
Winnie asked, “Yours are so little. Are they just going to freeze them off?”
“No. My doctor said that wouldn’t get rid of them all the way.”
“So are they doing it with a laser then?”
After briefly considering that the next time I go to the doctor I’d be smart to take Winnie the Inquisitive with me, I feigned nonchalance. “I have no idea.”
My friend gave me a sympathetic little wince and said hopefully, “Probably a laser. It won’t leave a mark at all.”
That’s what I was prepared for when I walked into the doctor’s office this afternoon, Frankie Goes to Hollywood strutting and singing, “Got to hit me, hit me, hit me with those laser beams.” I sat in the outer office briefly, then was swept into a procedure room, where I sat for 45 minutes reading 18-month old copies of Self and Ladies Home Journal. I hummed “Relax, don’t do it, when you wanna sock it to it” to myself.
Eventually a nurse put some cream on my nose and chin to deaden the skin. The doctor arrived and hit me, hit me, hit me with an anesthetic needle. Then she pulled out a knife.
Wait. Did I fall asleep while waiting and wake up in Romania?
A KNIFE?
What kind of barbarian takes stuff off of people’s faces with a scalpel in the 21st Century?
She poked my nose with the tip of the scalpel and said, “Can you feel that?”
I gulped. “No.” And she began to scrape. It was over quickly, and then, those fateful words: “Wow. You sure do bleed a lot.”
And then my next favorite part: “Nurse, pass the cauterizer.” I closed my eyes as the smell of my own skin cooking reached my nostrils (which were, after all, right there).
I decided to keep my eyes closed through the whole chin part which took longer, bled more and caused me to squirm from the sensory overload of seeing, hearing, smelling and now feeling the cauterizer through the fading anesthesia.
Belatedly I asked what I needed to do to avoid scars. The nurse and doctor glanced at each other skeptically and then the doctor said, “Uh, I’ll get you some cream.” Two well-placed Band-Aids and a short list of instructions later, the nurse said, “We don’t have anymore of that cream. Oh, and keep this dry and don’t remove the Band-Aids for two days.”
A prescription was written and the next thing I knew I was in my car driving home while having a small but very powerful vanity-induced panic attack, which means I kept looking at myself in the rearview mirror while speeding and weaving through rush hour traffic, telling myself as all these little asinine and VERY LATE thoughts rushed through my brain (What if I get an infection? What if I get a huge scar? What am I going to tell my students tomorrow?) that there are people in the world with far worse concerns than this and if I make a big deal about it that means I’m petty and shallow and What Would The Dalai Lama Do? and surely, SURELY I can think of some amusing story to tell my students and surely, SURELY this doctor is reputable, I mean, Blue Cross endorses her, right?
P.S. When am I gonna learn to start asking questions before the burned-flesh smell arrives?
After briefly considering that the next time I go to the doctor I’d be smart to take Winnie the Inquisitive with me, I feigned nonchalance. “I have no idea.”
My friend gave me a sympathetic little wince and said hopefully, “Probably a laser. It won’t leave a mark at all.”
That’s what I was prepared for when I walked into the doctor’s office this afternoon, Frankie Goes to Hollywood strutting and singing, “Got to hit me, hit me, hit me with those laser beams.” I sat in the outer office briefly, then was swept into a procedure room, where I sat for 45 minutes reading 18-month old copies of Self and Ladies Home Journal. I hummed “Relax, don’t do it, when you wanna sock it to it” to myself.Eventually a nurse put some cream on my nose and chin to deaden the skin. The doctor arrived and hit me, hit me, hit me with an anesthetic needle. Then she pulled out a knife.
Wait. Did I fall asleep while waiting and wake up in Romania?
A KNIFE?
What kind of barbarian takes stuff off of people’s faces with a scalpel in the 21st Century?
She poked my nose with the tip of the scalpel and said, “Can you feel that?”
I gulped. “No.” And she began to scrape. It was over quickly, and then, those fateful words: “Wow. You sure do bleed a lot.”
And then my next favorite part: “Nurse, pass the cauterizer.” I closed my eyes as the smell of my own skin cooking reached my nostrils (which were, after all, right there).I decided to keep my eyes closed through the whole chin part which took longer, bled more and caused me to squirm from the sensory overload of seeing, hearing, smelling and now feeling the cauterizer through the fading anesthesia.
Belatedly I asked what I needed to do to avoid scars. The nurse and doctor glanced at each other skeptically and then the doctor said, “Uh, I’ll get you some cream.” Two well-placed Band-Aids and a short list of instructions later, the nurse said, “We don’t have anymore of that cream. Oh, and keep this dry and don’t remove the Band-Aids for two days.”
A prescription was written and the next thing I knew I was in my car driving home while having a small but very powerful vanity-induced panic attack, which means I kept looking at myself in the rearview mirror while speeding and weaving through rush hour traffic, telling myself as all these little asinine and VERY LATE thoughts rushed through my brain (What if I get an infection? What if I get a huge scar? What am I going to tell my students tomorrow?) that there are people in the world with far worse concerns than this and if I make a big deal about it that means I’m petty and shallow and What Would The Dalai Lama Do? and surely, SURELY I can think of some amusing story to tell my students and surely, SURELY this doctor is reputable, I mean, Blue Cross endorses her, right?
P.S. When am I gonna learn to start asking questions before the burned-flesh smell arrives?
1 comment:
And again, I winced, while reading about your derma-experience! A scalpel, omg! Are you okay now? What DID you tell your students? Am I being uber-inquisitive now? Haha. I love that!
I'm home and can't wait to see you. We'll make quite the pair -you with your badges of courage upon your face & me with my "oh they won't make a mark' scars on my leg, arm & chest! Plus, karma must have knocked the &%*t out of me 'cuz I came home with massive blemish on my chin. The kind where you KNOW everyone is trying not to stare but they can't help it. I consoled myself by imagining that others were probably thinking I had some kind of derma-disease or a growth frozen that will magically fall off soon!!
See you soon! And try not to stare...
W
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