The tiny
woman walked into the exam room, introduced herself, and asked why I was
there. While I explained that my new PCP
suggested I see a dermatologist, she scanned my face.
She
called out to her assistant, “Two age spots on her cheeks. Multiple skin tags around her neck.” The assistant typed away on her laptop.
I told
the doctor those spots and tags were hereditary; all my family had them. She
said they weren’t dangerous. I asked
about the freckle that recently formed on my forehead.
“We’ll
burn that too.” She said, reaching for a tall, thin, silver can the size of my
Aveda “Control Force” hairspray.
“Burn?” I
asked. Shouldn’t she discuss this with
me first? I have never had a doctor tell
me what “we’ll” do without asking me first. “Is this going to hurt?”
“Yes.” She shook the can and weighed it in her hand,
assessing how much was still in it. “We’ll freeze the age spots first. This is liquid nitrogen. It will hurt quite a bit but some of my
patients say it feels like cold tickles.
“Hurt?” I
look at the exit.
“We’ll do
the big one first. Don’t move.” Bzzzt.
“Ow.” I
yell. Bzzzt. Bzzzt. “Ow.
Ow.” I yell louder. That did not
feel like “cold tickles.”
“Tell me
about your mother’s spots.” Bzzzt.
“Mother
of God.” I yell. “I don’t want to talk about my mother. That hurts.”
“Now the
other one.”
“Can we
leave it alone?”
“It will
only spread and get darker.”
“No, it
won’t. It has been getting smaller and
lighter.” Bzzzt. “Ow.” Bzzzt.
“Ow. Stop.”
“Did you
spend a lot of time in the sun when you were younger?” Bzzzt.
Bzzzt. “Do your grandchildren play soccer?” Bzzzt.
“No, stop
hurting me.” Bzzzt. “I don’t want to talk to you.” Bzzzt.
“At least
you are not using curse words.” She
says.
Bzzzzzzt. “What the *&^% was that?” I yell. “That
really hurt.”
Her face
is close to mine and I can see her smile.
She reminds me of Steve Martin in Little Shop of Horrors, enjoying the
torture she is inflicting on me. “We’re
done. Now let’s do the skin tags.”
“I don’t
want to.” I say.
“They
will only get caught in your jewelry, snag on your clothes.”
“I don’t
mind.”
“This
will hurt even more.” She puts down the silver can and reaches for a small
squatty can. It looks like WD 40 with a
skinny wire at its tip. She activates it
and the tip sizzles. It’s a mini
Tazer. “Lay back.” She says.
“Hurt more?” I ask.
I look at her. She’s tiny. I can take her down.
ZZZAAAPPP. “Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” I yell out.
I haven’t yelled like that since I gave birth to my children. ZZZAAAPPP. ZZZAAAPPP.
“Oh, come
now,” she says, “90-year-old patients take this better than you.” ZZZAAAPPP. ZZZAAAPPP.
“Ow. Ow.
Ow. I don’t care about them.” I
yell. ZZZAAAPPP.
“Now
let’s do the other side.”
“No,” I
yell. ZZZAAAPPP. “I said no.”
I smell burning oil like when a car’s engine is on its last legs. I
think it is me. ZZZAAAPPP. “Oh, please,
stop.”
“We’re
done.” She says. “Let’s do the freckle and you have three
little skin tags on your eyelid.”
I sit up,
then stand up. “I said no. I am done.
Tell me what I have to do to care for this and I am out of here.”
She asks
to check my back and my chest and makes note of two small moles between my
breasts. I tell her they are staying
right where they are.
She tells
me that there isn’t anything special I have to do to care for the freeze or the
burns. I can bathe, moisturize, go on
with my usual routine, and I should look better in two weeks tops.
There is
no need for a follow up, she says, unless I want to come back and have more
skin tags removed. Yeah, sure.
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