Those of you who have known me for awhile may remember the
unfortunate skin cancer incident of 2004.
It you haven’t heard this story, I can—as always—sum it up in a few
brief sentences:
I got skin cancer.
I freaked out.
In any case, since then I have to go to the dermatologist
once a year for the full body scan which also seems to involve a lot of unnecessary
prodding and poking and “We should probably whack a piece of that off and send
it to the lab for testing.”
I hate it.
This situation is not noticeably helped by the fact that
last year I went in with a lump on my face, terrified that the skin cancer was
coming back, and the dermatologist said that, while it wasn’t cancer, she wasn’t
sure what it was—maybe a new mole developing.
And about a week or so later, it developed into a huge
pimple.
I mean, I’m no expert, but isn’t acne covered in the first
week or so of dermatological school?!
However, I was actually glad about the appointment on
Thursday because I woke up with a nasty rash all over my chest and face.
A rash that Opie was pretty sure was poison ivy or the like
from working in the yard. He was, I’m sorry to report, downright dismissive of
my suggestions of leprosy, flesh-eating bacteria, meningitis and West Nile.
Clearly, he doesn’t read enough WebMD.
In any case, if you have to get a disgusting rash, the day
you’re already going to the dermatologist is the best day for it to pop up.
Unless, of course, when you get to the doctor’s office the
receptionist looks at you in confusion and says “Dr. Rice isn’t here today. She’s
out on maternity leave. You should have
gotten a letter.”
“I did get a letter,” I assured her—and even pulled it out
of my purse. “I got one that confirmed my appointment for today.”
“You should have gotten another one,” she said.
And I didn’t say anything for a long minute, largely due to
the fact that I was using all my mental energy to stop myself from punching her
in the face.
“She’s on maternity leave,” the receptionist said again. “She won’t be seeing patients until the end
of August.”
“Then why did I get a confirmation card?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. Then, like I knew the answer
better than she did, she actually asked “Maybe it went out before the letter?”
Some people take this in stride, vow to pray for the person
irritating them and continue on without incident. Others roll their eyes and make observations about
mind-boggling levels of apathy and incompetence.
In my defense, compared to everything else that I wanted to
say—most of which was laced with profanity and involved suggestions that weren’t
anatomically possible—this was downright civil.
Much more civil than the tirade that Opie was subjected to
when he asked “What did the dermatologist say?”
“I am NEVER going back to that doctor.” I told him. “I don’t care if my skin starts
rotting and peeling off in patches. I am
NEVER going back to her.”
“I think that’s the only dermatologist covered by our
insurance,” he said.
“NEVER!” I shouted.
He hasn’t yet told me that I’m over-reacting but that might
be because I kept yelling “Do you think I’m over-reacting, DO YOU?” in a
somewhat aggressive manner.
So, in sum, I have an appointment with my regular doctor on
Monday, I have been researching rashes on the internet and have added
pityriasis rosea and lyme disease to my list of possible illnesses, and Opie
brought home 3 different types of anti-itch creams.
But he really wants me to get off WebMD.
Oh, Opie. ::shakes head in sympathy:: He doesn't know. All rashes are something major. It's never poison ivy or a zit. Web MD confirms it. Sigh. When will he learn?
ReplyDeleteSo true!
ReplyDelete