In my estimation, trips to the Dermatologist are only for elderly Floridians and the terminally pimpled.
And me. Evidently.
At my recent yearly physical, my doctor spotted a spot that she deemed suspicious. She asked me when my last dermatology visit was. When I started doing math in my head, she stopped me and said that I needed to get my spot looked at.
But you don’t understand. Here in Florida, it can take years to get an appointment….I mean, I could be one giant boil away from death and I still wouldn’t get in….she raised her hand to stop me. They’ll see you.
And with that she jotted down the name of our dermatologist. Before the day was through I had an appointment scheduled for the next month.
The spot in question is right smack dab in the middle of my chest. But not much noticeable since I began hiding my cleavage away during the breastfeeding portion of motherhood.
And frankly out of fear, everything has since stayed hidden away.
That last child was a violent nurser. I’m still traumatized.
As my appointment neared this week, Fiddledaddy began to prepare me by relaying his dermatology tales of horror about getting spots fried off of his face, and other regions.
He delighted in torturing me by telling me that I would indeed cry like a girl, and about burning flesh, scarring, and anything beyond that I didn’t hear because my eyes rolled into the back of my head just before I blacked out.
I am not a fan of pain.
Bravely on Tuesday I set out the door for my appointment. With my children making “sizzling” sounds as I left. I in turn made a mental note to reward them with a special dinner of cold porridge that night.
I sat in the sterile chamber of dermatology horrors, suspiciously eyeing laser type equipment, needles, and pictures of dermatological nightmares on the wall.
When my doctor entered, I had forgotten that she looks like she’s 17. We chatted about our children as she examined all of my spots. From head to toe. I heard her name two spots “pre-cancer’ and one “biopsy.”
My eyes rolled to the back of my head, but I remained calm. She explained that she was going to zap a pre-cancer spot on my forehead (thank you God for bangs) and on my arm. But the suspicious third eye on my chest was going to have to be scraped off and biopsied.
What? Scraped off? I began to turn green. I relayed to her all of the tales of horror my husband (who she sees yearly) told me. She snickered. And she told me that the zapping only takes 5 seconds, but she lingers a little longer on the men.
HAHAHAHAHA. THAT’S FUNNY!
She zapped my two spots, and IT WAS NOTHING! I’ve endured childbirth for crying out loud. Me. Who births industrial sized children from non-birthing hips.
BRING IT ON!
The she set about the business of the biopsy. I saw a needle, and I just closed my eyes and went to my happy place.
Then I made the tactical error of opening my eyes just as she was dropping something very red and gooey into a vial for testing.
I now wait a week for the results. I’m not worried. I mean, I have to wait until NEXT YEAR to find out what happens on “Lost.” What’s a week.
When I arrived home, Cailey sniffed me suspiciously, “What’s that smell?”
“Burning flesh,” I replied. Her eyes widened. And then I thoroughly enjoyed telling my children that it didn’t hurt a bit and it’s THEIR FATHER WHO IS A BIG BABY AT THE DERMATOLOGIST’S OFFICE.
And then I had to dodge Jensen who spent the rest of the day fixated on the bandage on the middle of my chest.
Okay sisters and brothers of the internet, have you scheduled your dermatology appointment this year?