I'm disgustingly average. I can get off on someone else's medical misery, say a hip replacement or orthopedic surgery, but I'm god-awful afraid when it comes to my own health woes.
Which is why I don't go to the doctor too often or submit to colonoscopies, MRIs, mammograms, urinalysis, gynecological exams, bloodwork, or any other 21st century diagnostic tool.
I figure the less information collected, the less everyone has to worry about. And it works for me, except in the area of dermatology.When I was younger, I cried and carried on--and also went regularly to the dermatologist--due to acne. And it wasn't the easy, primetime Hollywood type where you look in the mirror and see a zitz and say, "oh my!" and squash it with a tweezer or something equally unhygienic. Oh no, I had to get the full-blown variety. I never actually counted the number of pimples or blackheads, but they had to fight for room on my face. It was what you'd call a mob scene. Naturally my older sister had a mild case, and my friends didn't seem to be among the afflicted. Perhaps they were the precocious types that fought the good fight in high school. I don't know because if there's one thing teens don't kid about, it's their faces. So, while I was duking it out with my zitzes, they were probably signing up for nose jobs and ear pinnings.
Not only did my blemishes have an all-over oozing look of red blotchiness, but I even hurt when I washed or applied the expensive topical ointment the doctor gave me. Nothing was too good for my acne. Between the vitamins and the antibiotics and, of course, the office visits, I must have spent a fortune on my face and not in a good, spa-facial kind of way. I got ultraviolet and dry ice treatments on a biweekly basis, and the doctor indulged in a bit of pimple picking himself. Since I was not one of his best behaved patients (oh, thank you dear doctor dermatologist for your efforts on my behalf), he fired me when I got married. His stated reason? Well, you got a guy now, so you can let your face go to wrack and ruin. He actually said that in not so many words, but I was too young and stupid to realize how unethical he sounded. So I quit the medical "aid" cold turkey and turned my face over to God and the pledge to never eat chocolate and fries.
The only mildly interesting part of going to the doctor was the waiting room. I never saw another acne patient--did they hide them in special cupboards? Everyone's face looked perfect--no pimples, no red skin from dry ice applications, no prescribed antibiotics clutched in their hot little fists, no nothing. I consoled myself by rationalizing that they probably had bigger fish to fry than pimples. Hideous things I only had read about like psoriasis and gasoline burns.
Well, I'm back in the dermatologist's office again and have been for the past 20 years. It seems that when I was sunbathing on the New Jersey beaches in my twenties in a vain attempt to cook those sucker pimples to a quick death, I was subjecting myself to too much UV light. The result? Skin cancer. Buckets of it. My dermatologist--let's call her Susie Psoriasis examines my body in minute detail every six months and likes to slice and dice at least once a year. I've had dozens of in-house surgeries for my legs, arms, thighs, even my ankle. Fortunately these were all basal cell cancers that I could joke about. "Oh another one," I'd say to Susie. "I guess my bikini days are over! Wouldn't want to scare those life guards at the Royal Hawaiian!"
I managed to joke my way through a ton of surgeries until Susie said the magic word: melanoma. She said the lab wasn't sure what this particular skin biopsy was. Oh great, I thought. If they don't know, and Susie doesn't know, what's my option? Google? How's a person supposed to react? Well, when in doubt I revert to semi-hysteria. I remembered a friend who had something similar, but I only half recalled her fears and anguish since it wasn't happening to number one, so big deal! Yup, that's how I think, and that's how a lot of people are. If it's not happening to them, then they don't want to hear about it, spare the details and let's go have a beer. I was not that bad, but since she had a baby doll complexion, blue eyes and blonde hair, I was less than sympathetic. Call me crazy (which I am) but don't call me overly empathetic.
The maybe-it-is-maybe-it's-not part of the melanoma diagnosis stuck in my throat so bad that I obsessed for hours and asked everyone I knew if they had ever received even the hint of a melanoma diagnosis (for those who lack the portable Grey's Anatomy on their book shelf, melanoma is the worst skin cancer you can get--highly unpredictable and very aggressive).
I gathered a few personal experience stories, but none that quieted my nervousness.
My new dermatologist was stone faced and went about slicing and dicing the melanoma-like lesion, and she did a top-notch job. The pathologist said I have clean margins, which are two words I never before thought of as sexy. So I think I'll stick with Dr. C for the remainder of my life since I'll probably accumulate a few dozen more skin lesions before I kick the bucket. Makes me almost miss the days of wine and acne!
Is this not truly disgusting? I'm such a badass it's something I would wish on my worst enemy.
And below the instrument tray, here's what the surgery setup looked like. Like a prison execution, wouldn't you say? All they needed was the magic needle and assembled witnesses.
Which is why I don't go to the doctor too often or submit to colonoscopies, MRIs, mammograms, urinalysis, gynecological exams, bloodwork, or any other 21st century diagnostic tool.
I figure the less information collected, the less everyone has to worry about. And it works for me, except in the area of dermatology.When I was younger, I cried and carried on--and also went regularly to the dermatologist--due to acne. And it wasn't the easy, primetime Hollywood type where you look in the mirror and see a zitz and say, "oh my!" and squash it with a tweezer or something equally unhygienic. Oh no, I had to get the full-blown variety. I never actually counted the number of pimples or blackheads, but they had to fight for room on my face. It was what you'd call a mob scene. Naturally my older sister had a mild case, and my friends didn't seem to be among the afflicted. Perhaps they were the precocious types that fought the good fight in high school. I don't know because if there's one thing teens don't kid about, it's their faces. So, while I was duking it out with my zitzes, they were probably signing up for nose jobs and ear pinnings.
Not only did my blemishes have an all-over oozing look of red blotchiness, but I even hurt when I washed or applied the expensive topical ointment the doctor gave me. Nothing was too good for my acne. Between the vitamins and the antibiotics and, of course, the office visits, I must have spent a fortune on my face and not in a good, spa-facial kind of way. I got ultraviolet and dry ice treatments on a biweekly basis, and the doctor indulged in a bit of pimple picking himself. Since I was not one of his best behaved patients (oh, thank you dear doctor dermatologist for your efforts on my behalf), he fired me when I got married. His stated reason? Well, you got a guy now, so you can let your face go to wrack and ruin. He actually said that in not so many words, but I was too young and stupid to realize how unethical he sounded. So I quit the medical "aid" cold turkey and turned my face over to God and the pledge to never eat chocolate and fries.
The only mildly interesting part of going to the doctor was the waiting room. I never saw another acne patient--did they hide them in special cupboards? Everyone's face looked perfect--no pimples, no red skin from dry ice applications, no prescribed antibiotics clutched in their hot little fists, no nothing. I consoled myself by rationalizing that they probably had bigger fish to fry than pimples. Hideous things I only had read about like psoriasis and gasoline burns.
Well, I'm back in the dermatologist's office again and have been for the past 20 years. It seems that when I was sunbathing on the New Jersey beaches in my twenties in a vain attempt to cook those sucker pimples to a quick death, I was subjecting myself to too much UV light. The result? Skin cancer. Buckets of it. My dermatologist--let's call her Susie Psoriasis examines my body in minute detail every six months and likes to slice and dice at least once a year. I've had dozens of in-house surgeries for my legs, arms, thighs, even my ankle. Fortunately these were all basal cell cancers that I could joke about. "Oh another one," I'd say to Susie. "I guess my bikini days are over! Wouldn't want to scare those life guards at the Royal Hawaiian!"
I managed to joke my way through a ton of surgeries until Susie said the magic word: melanoma. She said the lab wasn't sure what this particular skin biopsy was. Oh great, I thought. If they don't know, and Susie doesn't know, what's my option? Google? How's a person supposed to react? Well, when in doubt I revert to semi-hysteria. I remembered a friend who had something similar, but I only half recalled her fears and anguish since it wasn't happening to number one, so big deal! Yup, that's how I think, and that's how a lot of people are. If it's not happening to them, then they don't want to hear about it, spare the details and let's go have a beer. I was not that bad, but since she had a baby doll complexion, blue eyes and blonde hair, I was less than sympathetic. Call me crazy (which I am) but don't call me overly empathetic.
The maybe-it-is-maybe-it's-not part of the melanoma diagnosis stuck in my throat so bad that I obsessed for hours and asked everyone I knew if they had ever received even the hint of a melanoma diagnosis (for those who lack the portable Grey's Anatomy on their book shelf, melanoma is the worst skin cancer you can get--highly unpredictable and very aggressive).
I gathered a few personal experience stories, but none that quieted my nervousness.
My new dermatologist was stone faced and went about slicing and dicing the melanoma-like lesion, and she did a top-notch job. The pathologist said I have clean margins, which are two words I never before thought of as sexy. So I think I'll stick with Dr. C for the remainder of my life since I'll probably accumulate a few dozen more skin lesions before I kick the bucket. Makes me almost miss the days of wine and acne!
Is this not truly disgusting? I'm such a badass it's something I would wish on my worst enemy.
And below the instrument tray, here's what the surgery setup looked like. Like a prison execution, wouldn't you say? All they needed was the magic needle and assembled witnesses.
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