Two things I've learned today I thought I should share with you all.
1. Never--EVER--go to a dermatologist whose skin is much worse than your own.
2. No matter how angry you are at any given moment, you never have to go far to find someone who is far more pissed off than you.
To elaborate. Over the summer, I developed this thing on my back. Didn't really know what it was, but being a hypochondriac, I was naturally certain I was dying. Of course, competing impulses--I am also a chronic procrastinator, and so by the time I finally got around to going to the doctor to get a referral to a dermatologist, the thing had almost completely disappeared.
The doc nicely explained what it was (some kind of cyst) and said that it could easily inflame again, and a dermatologist could recommend if I should have it removed. He also noted my exceptionally moley back and chastized me for not already seeing a dermatologist once a year.
So I made an appointment with a dermatologist. Except getting into a specialist is quite difficult, so over a month and a half later, I finally go in to see this guy. By this time, the so-called cyst IS gone. So I'm really only going to have my moles looked at.
I walk into the office and the nurse hands me one of those damn paper gowns and tells me to strip down. I comply and wait for the doctor. When he finally appears, I am not filled with confidence--his skin is a giant red, dry, scaly mess. His face, his hands... it's everywhere.
He asks me why I'm there and I explain the cyst, that it's now gone, but that my doctor had told me I should also have my moles checked out regularly. He glances at my back and in a somewhat annoyed voice tells me they look fine, and has anyone ever shown me a picture of what a
bad mole actually looks like? I tell him yes, feeling a bit stupid at this point, and it doesn't seem to faze him. He goes into his cabinet and pulls out a brochure and shoves it in my face, going on about two different colors and irregular borders. He then (again) tells me I am fine, without the slightest hint of concern or bedside manner. And then he leaves.
I was mortified.
I put my clothes back on and slunk out of his office, stopping at the counter to pay my co-pay. I left the office in a huff, feeling like I had just completely wasted one hour of my life that I can never get back again. Never mind that I have another skin problem I had hoped he would take a look at--there is NO WAY that man was touching and/or looking at any other part of my epidermis.
I stormed up the street, grumbling in my head about everything I could think of. Stopped impatiently at the circle, waiting to cross, I noticed another agitated man at my side. The stoplights were not working, cars were jammed in the circle. As he started to walk to the street, one of the cars inched fowarded, blocking the crosswalk.
He swore. Looked at the driver menacingly. Wagged his finger. Walked around the car and barked again.
It made me laugh.
See, no matter how shitty you feel, there's always someone who feels even worse. And isn't that a comfort?
