Suzanna Danna

Work Phone: [ring ring ring]
self: (Workplace), Susan speaking.
Stacey: Hey.
self: ‘sup?
Stacey: Well, I was just calling for two things.
self: Thing the first?
Stacey: You gonna be able to come to happy hour tonight?
self: I think so. (Mister) has the Hantavirus or something so he is home sick. I’ll call him to make sure he doesn’t need anything but I am sure I’ll be able to come. Where are we going and can I smoke there?
Stacey: Cool. And the Fox and the Hound… yeah, you can smoke, Erica smokes.
self: Rock on. And, thing the second?
Stacey: Huh?… Oh, yeah.. uh, there’s this lady in my office.
self: ‘umkay…
Stacey: And she just got signed up to sell Mary Kay part time and I was wondering if you would like to come to one of her pampering sessions .
self: …
Stacey: So, would you?
self: … Seriously?
Stacey: ::Snort:: BWAH HA HA HA HA HA… no…. Ha… hee… no, not seriously. I was making a funny. Heh. Wouldn’t you just die though?
self: Good Lord. I thought you were being serious.
Stacey: Heh.
self: …[blink]
Stacey: Hee… heh.
self: Ok, well.. uh, call me later before you leave work.
Stacey: Right.
Work Phone: [click]

That Stacey, she slays me.

Okay. Right, so. On to Mr. Scratchy Pants. I told you guys I would tell you about the worst dermatology appointment ever didn’t I?

I’m not sure if I should set the scene or just dive right in. Let me just get to it. You guys are busy. It’s a Friday. I have some drinking and smoking to get to.

Ya’ll remember a few years ago when that little Asian woman (my dermatologist at the time) hacked into my poor little chicken leg right? And then because of that precious unicorns, sunbeams and rainbows type moment, (She was SO mean.) I started to go see the man who owned the actual practice. He removed a mole on my arm after a biopsy reported that the tissue was dysplastic and the scary word on the papers fairly screamed melanoma.

So, I have been watching my skin, wearing SPF 50 (aka flannel) and trying to stay out of the sun. (But Sue, you went to Destin… FLORIDA. Yes, I know. Kindly shut up, please.) But I knew it was time to go see the dermatologist again when a new little mole sprang forth fully formed like Athena out of Zeus' head… but more like a mole on my arm than a full human person… of Greek Mythology… or something.

So I made an appointment. But ‘lo and behold, Dr. T. sold the practice! To a young whipper snapper named Dr. Doogie Houser… er, Dr. S. So, I made the appointment and went to see him last Thursday. This also may be why I was a bit ranty when I posted the last entry.

My apologies.

Dr. S. took over the practice so Dr. T. could retire and fish or wear overalls and grow tomatoes, whatever… when Dr. S. took over the practice he fully redid the office. The waiting room has new magazines as well as two flat panel televisions which run Cirque du Soliel on a constant loop as to distract you from the amount of time that you have been waiting, waiting, waiting in this guy’s freaking office. Nice chairs, sure… but I have been out here for almost an hour you fuck.

So they called my name and I went back into the newly designed hamster cages with the new little orange plastic chairs and the walls painted sage green. They gave me a paper belly shirt (what? It was SHORT.) and a little paper “drape” to place across my thighs.

Do ya’ll remember all the classy, sexy things about me like… oh, I don’t know. Like that when I get nervous I tend to sweat like a monkey and that I have a beard hair?

Those things are pretty irrelevant, I was just checking to see where I was on ya’ll’s hot meter. Paper belly shirt? Check. Paper “drape” to lie enticingly over my thighs? Check. Nerves? Check. So because of the nerves I am slightly clammy and sticking to the naugahyde death chair that has that oh-so-important butcher paper strip down the middle of it? Checkity check check, bitches.

Epitome of hot, right there.

Hot, is all I’m sayin.

So Doogie Houser DG (Dermatology Guy) walks in after he made sure to wait until I was good and stuck to the butcher paper, he shakes my hand while not even looking at me (limp hand shake…. Eeesh) and then makes a “Take this down” gesture to his physician’s assistant. “So, you are allergic to Neosporin and polysporin… ?” “Well, I seem to be as I broke out last time when Dr. T cut out a mole and used Neosporin and polysporin. And also… um, Band-Aids.” “I see, I see… [hand to the chin in thinking pose] And why are you here today?” “Well, this little guy right here [I point to the Athena mole] has just popped up, it gets red sometimes and itchy… and it worries me.”

Ya’ll he grabbed my arm and pronounced, “BENIGN!” Like he was the ruler of my arm skin. He asked, “What else?” So I pointed to various things and these three freckle/mole things on my thighs. Two on the right, one on the left.

He stood to my left and yanked down my little paper drape to look at the freckle/mole thingies. He pronounced them “NORMAL!” and then while he was dictating information to his PA to write down in my chart he… started… well, absentmindedly scratching at my left thigh…with his fingernail. He wasn’t looking at me. He wasn’t looking at the mole. He was looking at his PA (whom he treated like chattel) and scratching at my mole/freckle thingy like it was his own personal scab.

No, I can not believe that I typed the word scab, and that I am going to leave it there. But. I am.

Scratching me like I was a scab.

I said it again.

He said, “I am going to freeze these three moles off and make you an appointment to cut out (Athena).”

He froze (by the way, OW.) the mole/freckles off and then walked out. He was in and out in less than seven minutes. SEVEN.

I asked the PA for some gauze and tape to cover the place where he burned/froze (whatever) things off (because I was BLEEDING from where he was scratching me, uuugh) and she, (deep breath Sue.) she put polysporin and Band-Aids on the freeze/burns. Hi. I am invisible. Does it not say “Allergic to Neosporin, polysporin and Band-Aids on my chart?”

Hate.

I was so upset that while I was paying my co-pay and a lady scheduled me for Dr. S to cut off the Athena mole. I just operated on pure adrenaline. I got in the car, came back to work, then promptly got sick… twice… because I was so freaked out about the scratching and the dismissive-ness and the polysporin Band-Aid thing.

I was so upset that I wrote a letter ya’ll.

I called the place, cancelled my appointments, wrote a letter telling them everything, faxed it and requested my records to be faxed to me.

It was awful.

A lady from the office called me the next day inquiring why I cancelled my appointment and I wanted to scream at her, “HE SCRATCHED ME LIKE A SCAB!” but I just politely said, “I faxed a letter over this morning, thank you, goodbye.”

Good news is that I found a new dermatology guy who has come highly recommended by… um… some person, somewhere. And I went to see him Saturday. Yes, he has Saturday hours. The man was THOUROUGH with a capital “He just looked between my toes” thorough.

Bad news is that Dr. Thorough biopsied eight places. Several places that Dr. Scratchy Pants deemed “NORMAL!” and five of them came back as dysplastic. So… because of my history with melanoma Dr. Thorough will be doing five mini surgeries on me in October.

I’ll keep ya’ll posted.

And um. Scab.

Yeah, that was gross.