My Unfavourite Word for the Week:
Oct. 20th, 2004 10:49 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ysobelleBiopsy.
No, no-- this has an element of humour. Trust me.
So I've had this thing on my back for ages now. It started small when I was a kid, now it's about the size and, bizarrely, the shape of a credit card, right between my shoulder blades. It's slightly darkened, slightly sunken skin. After people started asking me what it was at Faire, I finally went to the folks and said, "Hey, you who know every doctor in Philly, and who can help with paying for doctors' visits, what can I do?"
So yesterday, at long last, I went to a dermatologist. I had an appointment for 6.45pm. They told me I could show up early if I liked, so I showed up at 6.20. I finally saw Dr. Dans at 7.15. Rah.
So he checked me all over, poked at my back, and said, "Er...well...." He threw a few medical terms at me, one of which, morphia, I only remember cos I think if I ever have a band, I'm going to use that for a name, and said the only time he's seen anything like that was at a convention at Penn, when all the assembled dermatologists didn't know what the hell it was, either. So he said, "I'd like to do a biopsy." (No, he never said he thought it was cancerous.) I was okay with this until he said he'd pretty much punch a hole in my skin and close it up with a stitch, which I could come back in a week or two to get taken out. All of a sudden, I thought, "Ooo. That could be bad." I've got some plans for this weekend, you see, and for once, I'd like them NOT to involve any blood.
Now, understand, when he asked me questions about my family history of skin cancer, and I realised I didn't know the whole story of my father's melanoma, I mentioned my Mom was in the waiting room, so why didn't we ask her to come in? So I'm sitting there in my precious blue paper gown, with my Mom and a doctor I've known for all of ten mnutes, trying to figure out a genteel way of saying, "Well, if you don't mind, I'm planning on spending some time on my back this weekend, so could we reschedule?"
Right.
So I actually thought, as Dr. Dans picks up the phone to call the nurse, "Think fast, chicklet."
And I opened my mouth.
And what came out was,"Er...is there any way we could put this off a bit?"
Dr Dans turned to me. "I'm sorry?"
"Well, you see, I have only one more weekend left of faire, and I'll be in a corset, and...." I made some vague gestures.
"Oh," said Dr. Dans. "It would irritate the stitch."
"Yes, it would," I agreed quickly. "And it'd show."
"Mmm. You'd have a band-aid back there."
"Right. Well, after this weekend, I have no objections. Can we do that?"
"Oh, of course, no problem," he said, just as the nurse walked in. He very politely said, "Actually, we won't need you, thanks!" And she, with a slight look of bafflement in her eyes, turned back around and walked out.
Now, understand that my corset and chemise are low enough that they probably won't touch this soon-to-be-placed stitch. If I knot up my hair, the entire patch of odd skin on my back is revealed, which is why I made the appointment in the first place. And with my hair down, no one would see anything. But, my G-d! Priorities are priorities! I would, of course, rather NOT have a band-aid and stitch to worry about the final weekend of faire, with the packing and the hugging et al, and I certainly like to keep my anachronisms down at the best of times. Next week, when the heaviest thing I'll have to lift is, I hope, a Navajo pot or a phone receiver, I'm fine with it. But it's just this weekend, well...I'd like to keep my options open.
Now, the fact that I'm feeling PMSy all of a sudden, well, that's another problem entirely.
No, no-- this has an element of humour. Trust me.
So I've had this thing on my back for ages now. It started small when I was a kid, now it's about the size and, bizarrely, the shape of a credit card, right between my shoulder blades. It's slightly darkened, slightly sunken skin. After people started asking me what it was at Faire, I finally went to the folks and said, "Hey, you who know every doctor in Philly, and who can help with paying for doctors' visits, what can I do?"
So yesterday, at long last, I went to a dermatologist. I had an appointment for 6.45pm. They told me I could show up early if I liked, so I showed up at 6.20. I finally saw Dr. Dans at 7.15. Rah.
So he checked me all over, poked at my back, and said, "Er...well...." He threw a few medical terms at me, one of which, morphia, I only remember cos I think if I ever have a band, I'm going to use that for a name, and said the only time he's seen anything like that was at a convention at Penn, when all the assembled dermatologists didn't know what the hell it was, either. So he said, "I'd like to do a biopsy." (No, he never said he thought it was cancerous.) I was okay with this until he said he'd pretty much punch a hole in my skin and close it up with a stitch, which I could come back in a week or two to get taken out. All of a sudden, I thought, "Ooo. That could be bad." I've got some plans for this weekend, you see, and for once, I'd like them NOT to involve any blood.
Now, understand, when he asked me questions about my family history of skin cancer, and I realised I didn't know the whole story of my father's melanoma, I mentioned my Mom was in the waiting room, so why didn't we ask her to come in? So I'm sitting there in my precious blue paper gown, with my Mom and a doctor I've known for all of ten mnutes, trying to figure out a genteel way of saying, "Well, if you don't mind, I'm planning on spending some time on my back this weekend, so could we reschedule?"
Right.
So I actually thought, as Dr. Dans picks up the phone to call the nurse, "Think fast, chicklet."
And I opened my mouth.
And what came out was,"Er...is there any way we could put this off a bit?"
Dr Dans turned to me. "I'm sorry?"
"Well, you see, I have only one more weekend left of faire, and I'll be in a corset, and...." I made some vague gestures.
"Oh," said Dr. Dans. "It would irritate the stitch."
"Yes, it would," I agreed quickly. "And it'd show."
"Mmm. You'd have a band-aid back there."
"Right. Well, after this weekend, I have no objections. Can we do that?"
"Oh, of course, no problem," he said, just as the nurse walked in. He very politely said, "Actually, we won't need you, thanks!" And she, with a slight look of bafflement in her eyes, turned back around and walked out.
Now, understand that my corset and chemise are low enough that they probably won't touch this soon-to-be-placed stitch. If I knot up my hair, the entire patch of odd skin on my back is revealed, which is why I made the appointment in the first place. And with my hair down, no one would see anything. But, my G-d! Priorities are priorities! I would, of course, rather NOT have a band-aid and stitch to worry about the final weekend of faire, with the packing and the hugging et al, and I certainly like to keep my anachronisms down at the best of times. Next week, when the heaviest thing I'll have to lift is, I hope, a Navajo pot or a phone receiver, I'm fine with it. But it's just this weekend, well...I'd like to keep my options open.
Now, the fact that I'm feeling PMSy all of a sudden, well, that's another problem entirely.