Sun... Burned

To accurately tell this story I need to start at the beginning.  I moved back to Florida in 2004, the day after Hurricane Charley caused massive destruction in central Florida, uprooting a multitude of grand oak trees in My Small Town and elsewhere, in order to begin my career as a professional school counselor.  I had lived out of the country for a number of years, and was looking forward to a bit of something… familiar.  A few months after I had moved back to My Small Town, my father asked me if I would go to the dermatologist with him.  I have to have a surgery on my arm to get rid of some skin cancer, and it will hurt me to drive afterward.   
Okay, Dad… No problem. 

My dad has had hunks and chunks taken out of him for years.  He grew up in Miami without air conditioning.  These were pre-sunscreen days, and they would spend days at the beach, not to mention all the fishing he did without a shirt on.  The words skin cancer are as normal as blueberry pancakes in our family.  

When we got to the doctor’s office, my dad was treated like a rock star.  Everybody knew him, and I tried not to cringe when the ladies told me how much Dad had told them about me.  My father is proud of my accomplishments.  I know this.  It’s his right to be proud.  Still, (and this is most definitely the little bit of a spoiled brat that I have in me) I hate it when I meet people and Dad has told them all about my life.  

Of course, now I’m telling the world about my life in this blog, so maybe I’m trying to beat him to the punchline.

Anyway, when they called Dad to go into the examining room, I asked him if he wanted me to stay in the lobby, or go with him.  You can come with me, Jen.  Okay….

Well, we got situated in the room, and a few minutes later, in walks the physician’s assistant.  He was youngish and nice-looking, and I knew instantly that this was a set-up.  Arrrggghhhh.  I hadn’t even put on makeup when I left the house.  So, he’s working on Dad and asking me questions about Canada and the like, and after Dad was sewn up we left.  When I brought Dad home my mother asked us how everything went.  Dad is trying to set me up with the PA at his dermatologist’s.

Jennifer, they’ve been planning this for years.

Grrreeeaaaattttt.  I had just ended a three-year relationship, and I wasn’t exactly looking for a date.

Still, I figured what the heck, and when Dad had his follow-up appointment I gave him my permission to pass along my phone number, which he did, saying, Okay, now you have the information.  I’m out of it.

The PA called me a couple of days later, and asked me if I might like to go out to dinner.  Sure—but I don’t like to go on first dates in My Small Town.  I know too many people, and it’s like a fishbowl—not a good first date experience.  So we went round and round trying to agree on a place to dine.  It took us a good fifteen minutes, and I hung up, exhausted.  Not a good sign.

He called me that Friday and left a message saying that he didn’t feel well and needed to cancel the date.  

It didn’t bother me… I wasn’t exactly getting warm and fuzzy feelings about him either.  Sometimes, you know, the chemistry just doesn’t work.  Plus I really wasn’t at all ready to start dating again yet anyway.

This is all well and good, except that a few years later, when my then-boyfriend, a surfer who knew his skin, examined a sore on my forearm and asserted, You really need to get that looked at.  I had never been to the dermatologist before for an examination.  I really wasn’t all that eager to disrobe in front of a man who had once considered taking me out.  Dad told me to make an appointment specifically with the doctor, which I did.  The doctor came in and took a sample of my arm, and then dropped the sample on the floor.  Twice.  

Really.

I never do this, Miss Single!  I can’t believe I’ve done it twice!  

When I called to get the biopsy results, sure enough, they were positive.  I did nothing about it… for three whole years.  Dumb, dumb, dumb… but true.  Fast forward three years.  At the beginning of the summer I went back to the dermatologist, this time to a female partner of the same group in the east Orlando office, and had another biopsy done of the same area. Yep... still positive.  We set an appointment for the surgery in the small town next to My Small Town, and that was that.

As stated in They Call Me Two Tone, I earned myself a severe sunburn on my legs when I forgot (I really and truly forgot!) to apply sunscreen on my gleaming white gams when I went kayaking with my sister.  My legs started peeling in earnest last Thursday, and I scrubbed, scrubbed, scrubbed in the shower to move the process along... and rid myself of the nasty, scaly, dead skin that covered them.

It was also the same day I was having surgery on my arm to remove skin cancer.

Going to the dermatologist with a sunburn is like going to the dentist without brushing your teeth first.  I hated going there with lizard legs, but, hey, it was time to face the music.

My appointment was at 10:30; my mother had her own surgical follow-up for her foot scheduled for 1:10 the same day.  I thought I had plenty of time between appointments.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

I arrived at the doctor's office a few minutes early, and opened up the latest issue of The Economist, which I get in the mail every Saturday, but don't do a very good job of reading thoroughly.  What I do read, I get much more in depth information on than any other source.  It helps me expand my vocabulary, too.  Economist journalists definitely don't write for an audience with an 8th grade reading ability.  It is reading that requires my full attention.  When my mind is wrestling with conflicting thoughts, I find myself reading the same paragraph over and over until I can quiet my brain and focus on the task at hand.  The Economist also great bedtime reading, because it really tires me out!

Anyway, one never knows how long they will be waiting at the doctor's office, whether it's in the waiting room or in the actual examining room, so I always make sure to bring material that will keep me preoccupied.  On Thursday I was lucky not to have more than a five-minute wait in the lobby, but once I was brought to the room where the surgery was taking place, I had a lot of time on my hands.  The tech asked me a few questions, and the nurse asked me even more questions.  I came clean about my legs, and the tech told me Aveeno would help them to heal faster.  Cool.  Since I have very sensitive skin, I already keep Aveeno in my medicine cabinet. Then they both left.  I re-opened The Economist, and resumed my reading.

Eventually, the tech came back and started giving me the local anesthetic that numbed my upper-arm, where the skin cancer was located.  After a few minutes, the doctor came in, and performed the surgery.  The whole thing took less than ten minutes.  To distract me, the doctor asked me about my life, so I gave him the abridged version.  We moved to My Small Town when I was eleven years-old, FSU, Japan, Canada, back to My Small Town to be a school counselor, yada, yada, yada.  When he completed the surgery we were talking about how if Florida had mountains it would be the perfect state, and while the nurse sewed me up, compared great towns for hiking in northern Georgia and North Carolina.  When the topic was exhausted, the doctor left, after telling me that they were going to look at the bit that was cut out to make sure that they had gotten all of the cancer.  I told him I was sure that they'd gotten it all, and I was pleased that he spent more time with me than was necessary.

The tech asked me to wait in the lobby while they froze what they had taken out of my arm and examined it under a microscope.  I called my mom because the time was approaching 12:30, and if I was going to pick her up and get her to her appointment on time, she needed to be ready when I got there.

Jennifer, I'll call Jackie.  She can take me to the doctor.  I'll call you if she's busy.

Jackie works with my mom during the school year, on the corner opposite at their big, six-laned intersection on the major highway that runs through My Small Town.  Thank goodness Jackie wasn't busy, because a minute later the tech came out and said they needed to go back in-- they didn't get it all.  So... he gave me more local anesthetic-- which I didn't feel because the first round hadn't worn off yet.  The doctor had to undo my stitches, cut a bit more, and then told the assistant to keep me open while they looked under the microscope again.  This time, they got it ALL, and the assistant sewed me back up.  It didn't hurt; I only felt the pressure.  First she sewed up my skin under the surface, then I she sewed up the top layer of skin.  Then the tech dressed the wound.  He said they were tag-teaming me, so they could get me out quicker.  I had been there for three hours.

For five days I had what looked like a big blob of silly putty coming out of my left forearm.  Not attractive.

Today was my follow-up.   I had been psyching myself out for this follow-up, because it was with The PA.  I wanted to tell him, Hey, I acted really immaturely, and I am okay with seeing you professionally if you are okay with having me as a patient.  

Honestly, driving an hour just to avoid having to see this man who has been wonderful to my father for all these years is just plain dumb.  I am smarter than that.  

Well, the nurse directed me to the room, then left to go get The PA, then came back and said that she would be redressing my wound herself, which she did beautifully, as well as give me directions on how to do it myself.   I'll need to do this each day after I get out of the shower until next Wednesday, when my stitches are removed.  I was kind of sad that I didn't get to put this minor little hiccup in my life behind me... but... as we say... .life goes on.  Perhaps he'll be removing my stitches next week, and I can try my little talk again.

Next time I will make sure that I apply sunscreen liberally on all exposed skin before I get Sun... Burned.


Addendum:  The author does not recommend going three whole years before deciding to remove a known skin cancer from one's lovely body.