I’ll be the first to admit that doctors make me nervous – like sweaty palms nervous. And when a doctor is “all business” and very serious, well, even my eyeballs begin to sweat.
So my six-month post-op cancer checkup with a dermatologist last week was something that caused me to lose sleep the night before. When I got up that morning, my first thought was, “Okay, let’s get this over with!”
An assistant, a blond young woman wearing a mask (I also was required to wear one), led me into an examining room. She asked me a few basic health questions, then told me to remove everything but my panties and put on a shin-length hospital gown with the slit open up the back.
Without realizing it, I muttered out loud, “If I take off my bra, the doctor won’t be able to see anything on my stomach, thanks to gravity.”
I heard her laugh and say, “You’re SO funny!” Even though I wasn’t joking.
She left the room and I noticed that one whole wall was a picture window facing an office building. I wasn’t about to remove my clothes while standing in front of a picture window, even though I toyed with idea of doing a striptease and slowly removing one item at a time and tossing it aside. But then I figured the people in the office building facing that window all instantly would be stricken blind. So I pulled down the blinds.
After I got undressed and put on the gown, I sat on the paper-covered examining table for 20 minutes…waiting. My feet were so cold, they actually were changing color. I was in the process of rubbing them to get the blood circulating when the doctor finally entered. At least I think it was the doctor – he was dressed like someone about to enter an asbestos manufacturing plant.
His voice, which sounded strictly robotic, began to methodically list body parts. “Let me see your left arm. Now raise it. Thank you. Let me see your right arm. Now raise it. Thank you.”
Then he checked the soles of my feet – and between my toes. The way he stared at my feet told me he probably was thinking I must have been the victim of some terribly deforming accident at some point in my life, so I offered the information:
“Ballet dancing,” I said. “Ten years of prancing around on my toes, which no human foot ever was created to do, ruined my feet.”
“Did you dance professionally?” he asked.
“Let’s just say that when I performed in “Swan Lake” years ago, I was one of the mosquitoes.”
No response.
“So,” he said, “Do you routinely check your body, including your labia and anal area for lumps or spots?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m old…and not a contortionist.”
“Then, does your family physician check those areas?”
“Oh, yeah, all the time.”
At that point, I honestly thought I felt my nose growing beneath my mask.
As the checkup continued, he listed body parts and spots as he went along, and the assistant typed them. I heard “seborrheic keratosis” about a dozen times, which I knew were what dermatologists often referred to as “old-age barnacles,” and then a couple “cherry angiomas” thrown in for good measure. But the doctor said my cancer surgery looked fine and he didn’t see anything else that looked suspicious, which was good news.
He then asked if I had anything that was bothering me. I told him I didn’t like the brown scaly patch on my jawline.
“Let my freeze that off for you, then” he said, grabbing a can of liquid nitrogen from the counter and spraying me with it. By the time he was done, he’d also sprayed a patch on my neck, one on my shin and one…well, let’s just say it was in a place that would make sitting down pretty uncomfortable for a while.
He then said, “Those areas l treated should be completely healed and gone by Christmas. If not, give me a call because sometimes skin cancer can mimic something that looks benign.”
But he did say if all went well, I wouldn’t have to return for another year. So that also was good news.
Anyway, after my exam, as I was checking out and giving my paperwork to the woman at the front desk, she casually asked me how I was doing.
“Fine,” I said, “except that spot he froze on my butt really is burning right now. I hope I can sit still long enough to drive home.”
“Well,” she said, sounding completely serious, “I can always give you a note, if you’d like, just in case you get pulled over by the police for driving erratically. It might be easier than having to drop your pants to show them why.”
I burst out laughing, and so did she.
I felt like telling her that maybe she should give a few personality lessons to the doctor.
Now I just have to figure out how to keep track of that one awkwardly located spot to make sure it’s all healed and gone by Christmas.
Somehow, I don’t think knocking on one of my neighbors’ doors and asking, “Hey, can you do me a big favor and check out something for me?” would be such a good idea.
Sally Breslin is
an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for
newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several
novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science fiction.
Contact her at: sillysally@att.net
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