Skindred Spirits

I’m an old tennis pro. Old enough that when I ran into my first tour doubles partner and we graced the court for the first time in years, he said, “Mac, you still got the wings but you ain’t got the wheels to get there anymore.”

Father Time is a tough opponent and age rears its ugly head in a multitude of ways, particularly if athletics were a big part of your youth. Each year, it seems a new body part takes a little longer to wake up in the morning. Another age-related “slap up-side the head” involves that big yellow thing up in the sky. I’m a redhead and choosing a line of work that takes place under the sun was probably ill-advised, especially when sunscreen was more prayer than remedy when I started playing. I’ve secretly hoped one day all my freckles will join hands and I’ll have a great tan.

Then I hit forty. The competitive racquets are long-since retired and my Nikes and warm-ups have been replaced by Oxfords and French cuffs. I no longer toe the baseline and chase fuzzy balls. Now I toe the corporate line and chase the almighty dollar.

Last week, I popped out of the shower before work. I’m toweling off and my wife asks, “Has that freckle always been that dark?”

I reply, “What freckle?”

I’m summarily ignored (I’ve come to learn this is a common occurrence for married men) because she’s already on the phone with my doctor to schedule a referral to a dermatologist. I’ve never been to a dermatologist. I don’t want to go to a dermatologist. But experience has taught me marital bliss can only be achieved by picking battles and this is one battle I will surely lose. I acquiesce, surrender without firing a shot and say, “When’s the appointment?”

So here I sit in the dermatology waiting room, reading the July, 2018 edition of Better Homes and Gardens. Apparently micro-gardens were all the rage back then and oh, look, a recipe for a kale and quinoa salad. I’ll take a hard pass on that one. Just as I begin an article explaining the benefits of hypoallergenic bedding, a door opens and a petite, dark-haired woman, clad in blue scrubs (and with what can only be described as perfect skin) says, “Mr. McKee?” I stand and she says, “My name’s Mia and we’re ready for you. Right this way.”

I follow her past a labyrinth of examination rooms until we come to the one assigned to me. She has me step on scales to record my height and weight. I take note of the number displayed and come to the obvious conclusion that my shoes weigh at least six or seven pounds. Mia makes small talk as she takes my vitals. When she’s done, she retrieves a blue, backless gown from a cabinet, hands it to me and says clinically, “Strip down and put this on. You can hang your clothes over there,” nodding to a hook on the wall.

I ask, “Down to my boxers?”

She replies, “No, those too.” That should have been my first clue.

I tie the gown around my neck and after giving up on my futile attempt to tie the strings provided in the middle of the back, I sit atop the exam table trying to demurely obscure my butt crack. I hear a polite knock at the door and I say, “Come on in.”

A young doctor appears at the door. She’s plus or minus forty and absolutely stunning. I make mental note that perfect skin must be a prerequisite for working in this office. She pauses in the half-open doorway, offers a crippling smile and says, “Good afternoon, Mr. McKee. I’m Doctor Yang.”

I reply, “Good afternoon.”

She remains in the threshold and says, “I have a request. A couple of residents are doing their dermatology rotation and shadowing me today. Would you mind if they observe while I do your exam?”

I reply, “I’m all for education and I’m betting a redhead with a Vin Diesel haircut who made his living on a hot tennis court is a dermatologist’s dream. The more the merrier, I guess.”

She opens the door all the way, stands aside and in walks a troupe of fresh-faced twenty-somethings, all clad in white coats followed by the nurse I met earlier. “A couple” apparently means “six” to Doctor Yang. It’s standing room only and I’m quickly surrounded. Doctor Yang says, “You have a point about redheads. From this point forward, I don’t want you walking to your car without SPF 50 or higher on your face and head.”

She dons some sort of magnifying device on her head, steps in closer and says, “Let’s start at the top and work our way down.”

She begins the exam and, as promised, starts at the top of my head. I hear her say, “Hmm.” Hmm can’t be good. She explains, “Mr. McKee, you’re at that point where we’re going to treat you like a garden. Your garden has weeds and every six months or so we’re going to lop off the biggest weeds.”

This sounds ominous. The doctor extends her right hand toward the nurse who hands Dr. Yang something resembling a butane torch but turns out to be exactly the opposite. She continues, “This is liquid nitrogen in spray form. It comes out at 320 degrees below zero. Wherever I see a suspicious spot, I’ll hit it with this which will prevent that spot from turning into something nastier. Fair warning…even though it’s colder than cold, it will burn like hell for a bit but will prevent that area from turning into a melanoma. Left untreated, a melanoma can turn into squamous cell carcinoma. That’s bad. That’s full-blown skin cancer. If we leave that unchecked, it could get into your lymph nodes and spread. Do I have your attention?”

With words like carcinoma, squamous and lymph nodes, she most certainly has my attention. My mind meanders to where I can purchase SPF 1,000 sunscreen. I wonder if they make liquid carboard? I say, “Loud and clear, doc.”

She says, “This is going to sting a bit,” and I hear the rush of compressed gas as it sprays atop my head. I grit my teeth. It feels like someone is using my head to put out a wooden match.

Then I hear her say, “Uh-oh.” I’m guessing “Uh-oh” is not good. She expounds to the group, “Notice how this spot is darker and textured.” The residents take turns leaning in for a closer look. The doctor says, “Mia, can you get me a biopsy tray.”

Biopsy? Awesome…just awesome. Mia scurries to a cabinet where they must keep the sharp things. Dr. Yang says, “This spot is a little suspect so we’re going to numb you with a little lidocaine, take a small scraping and send it to the lab to test for melanoma. It’s probably nothing but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

Mia appears at my side with a sterile tray. I was right about the sharp things. I spy a needle and two shiny blades. Mia cleans the area in question with an alcohol swab and says, “You’ll feel a little pinch,” as she obscures the syringe from my sight. She says, “Here we go.”

Pinch, hell?? The top of the head must be pretty sensitive because it feels like I lost a fight with a pissed-off hornet. The sting soon subsides and gives way to a comfortable numbness. The doctor steps in, carves off a piece of my scalp and Mia spirits it away. A healing ointment and band-aid are quickly applied and Dr. Yang continues the exam. She’s only perused six or eight square inches of my body and I’ve already been frozen and cut. I have visions of walking out looking like a patchwork quilt when she’s done.

After one more freezy-thing on my scalp and one on the top of my left ear, the doc asks me to lie supine on the exam table. Mia gave me a pillow and peels the gown off the top of my shoulders. I can feel eight pairs of eyes scrutinizing my every pore. Dr. Yang does a thorough once-over on my arms and shoulders. Mercifully, sharp things and cold things remain on the shelf. She rolls down my gown and inspects my chest, then stomach. Then we go all Fifty Shades of Red as I feel a southern breeze and this movie rating goes from “PG-13” to “R” very quickly. Next, I feel my nether regions being tossed this way and that as I realize the true meaning of a “full-body dermatological exam.” There are now eight more people in the world who know I’m a real redhead.

The platoon of white coats finally directs their attention to my legs and compassionately drape the gown across my twig and berries. My lower half passes inspection and Dr. Yang says, “Now if I can have you roll over,” as she unceremoniously lifts the gown…again.

I do as I’m told and feel the gown being lain across by buttocks. I’ll take a shred of humility anywhere I can get it today. However, that modicum of modesty is short-lived. My back and legs are studied and raise no more medical eyebrows. But once again, my gown is unceremoniously removed. Then things get quite cheeky as the last of my nooks and crannies are thoroughly surveyed.

The white coats are dismissed and I’m once again allowed to don my gown. I’m given care instructions for where I’ve been diced and frozen and allowed to get dressed. The doctor tells me my biopsy results will be back in about a week and I take my leave…trying not to make eye contact with anyone on the way out.

I call my wife, Salem, to let her know how the appointment went. About halfway through the story, she’s laughing so hard she can barely talk. Finally, she gets out something intelligible. “Don’t forget we’re meeting my brother and his new girlfriend for dinner tonight.”

I pick up Salem on the way home and we head toward downtown Seattle for dinner. I find parking about a block from the restaurant. I feed the parking meter and we make our way down the block. As we near the eatery, I ask, “He actually used the word girlfriend? What’s she like and what happened to the last one?”

Salem replies, “No idea. All I know is he met her at work and actually used the word smitten.”

“Whoa,” I say in astonishment. “This should be interesting.” Her brother is a handsome and very single plastic surgeon. He has the good sense not to date his clients but we’ve seen a parade of very attractive nurses in the recent past and seldom the same one more than once. “Seattle Magazine” named him one of the city’s most eligible bachelors in the last issue.

We enter the crowded restaurant, scan the crowd and see Salem’s brother, Liam, rise from a booth and wave us over. Hugs and handshakes ensue. Salem says, “Where’s your date?”

Liam replies, “She should be here any minute.”

Salem seizes the opportunity and eagerly begins the interrogation. “What’s she like? How long have you known her? Is it serious? How’d you meet?”

Liam cuts her off and says, “Easy, sis. Pump the brakes a bit. We’ve got all night. Her name is Amy…” Then Liam is distracted by something behind us, rises out of his seat and continues, “In fact, you can ask her yourself. Salem, Race, I’d like you to meet…” I rise, turn and in astonishment, finish Liam’s sentence, “…Doctor Amy Yang.”

Liam says, “Oh, good. You’ve met.”

Salem chimes in, “Wait a minute. Is this your dermatologist?” Salem bursts into laughter, then gathers herself and attempts to explain to Liam how we met. Dr. Yang slides into the booth opposite me and we’re both trying not to blush. Now Liam is laughing and I hide behind a menu. Salem and Liam finally settle down, though both have to wipe away tears of laughter.

Amy attempts to break the awkward silence by asking, “So what’s good here?” Then she feigns nonchalance and takes a sip of water.

I reply sternly, “I have no idea but for god’s sake, no one better order the sausage with red peppers.” My new doctor spews her water all over me and the table erupts in laughter.