Datebook: Monday, June 9th ~ 2008
On Friday I made my trek to the Dermatologist for a full body mole scan.
This is something that I put off and cancel for a variety of reasons. Last year, we ran out of sweetener so I never got that first morning cup of quality coffee. The year before, I had one more chapter to read in a great novel and did not want to finish it under the antiseptic odors of the doctor’s office. With all these pressing intrusions into my schedule it has been four years since my last annual visit.
The actual visit starts with the usual foreplay—flashing insurance cards, blood pressure cuff inflation, and the infamous weight-in. This is a bit touchy for me as I am hovering at a line with my Body Mass Index. Medically, your BMI this is the amount of fat stored in your cells, but I really think it is difference between what you listed as your weight on your driver’s license twenty years ago, and your current weight. When I look in the mirror I see the reflections of a woman who is “big boned”. In pass centuries, I would be called “Full-Figured”.
Unfortunately, the medical profession considers anyone with a BMI of 25 to 29.9 pounds over her Driver’s License Weight to be “Overweight”. If you are 30 pounds over you are labeled “Obese”. If you are 100 pounds over your balance mark you are classified as having “Morbid Obesity”.
The nurse came in and told me to take off everything but “my underwear.” I nodded but she turned around at the door and looked back.
“That means your bra too. Your bra is underwear.” She shrugged at my blank expression. “You’d be surprised at how many people don’t seem to know that.”
The doctor enters and looks at my chart and asks me if I had been put on the five year plan by mistake. I murmur that I have been really busy but have worn sunscreen all year. This is obviously a fib as my naked foot bears the tanned outline of a flip flop. Dr Robinson looks at me sharply as if I am an errant seventh grader who has just shot a spit ball from a hollow Bic pen. He is as pale as his lab coat—obviously involved in some study group that is test marketing SPF 340 from Banana Boat.
Apparently mole health is not a matter to ever be taken lightly.
He makes me stand while he puts on his skin miner’s helmet with a 900 watt light and flips down the magnifying lenses. The moment of truth. If I really had a sense of humor I would have worn a thong. The humiliation lasts for only a minute and then he asks me sit and he wipes the make-up from my face with alcohol swaps with the precision of one who has scraped and scaled pool tiles.
I am finally pronounced “Clear” but his voice is gravely and heavy. I am sure all my teen summers lying in the sun wearing baby oil and dissolved coffee, or baby oil and iodine are as evident as tattoos on my skin. We are such an informed public in 2008.
I feel a surge of sympathy for Dr. Robinson who must deal with the mass irregular moles, melanomas, and various skin eruptions that plague our community.
“My daughter is an ice-skater,” I offer.
He looks at me as if I had just announced that the cost of sun screen has just gone up to 3.97 a squirt.
“I mean she is inside, in the cold…not in the sun. She doesn’t go in the sun that much which is good, although it doesn’t seem fair because she doesn’t sweat.” He looks puzzled so I try to explain.
“Well, she sweats, but it mostly on her face when she is skating hard. She doesn’t sweat under her arms like the rest of us so she really doesn’t need to wear deodorant, but she does when she goes out—which is good because that’s a chemical and I’m sure that’s hard on the skin every day.”
He looks at me without a change of expression.
“I just thought you might like to know that ice skaters have great skin. Because they’re not in the sun.”
Dr. Robinson turns back to my chart, writes something (hopefully not “Obese”) and hands me a slip of paper to take to the receptionist.
She tells me, “No charge today and Dr. Robinson says he doesn’t need to see you for five years.”
Odd, but all my moles must be regular. At least now I have time to bring my BMI down to my DLW.
Mombo
This is something that I put off and cancel for a variety of reasons. Last year, we ran out of sweetener so I never got that first morning cup of quality coffee. The year before, I had one more chapter to read in a great novel and did not want to finish it under the antiseptic odors of the doctor’s office. With all these pressing intrusions into my schedule it has been four years since my last annual visit.
The actual visit starts with the usual foreplay—flashing insurance cards, blood pressure cuff inflation, and the infamous weight-in. This is a bit touchy for me as I am hovering at a line with my Body Mass Index. Medically, your BMI this is the amount of fat stored in your cells, but I really think it is difference between what you listed as your weight on your driver’s license twenty years ago, and your current weight. When I look in the mirror I see the reflections of a woman who is “big boned”. In pass centuries, I would be called “Full-Figured”.
Unfortunately, the medical profession considers anyone with a BMI of 25 to 29.9 pounds over her Driver’s License Weight to be “Overweight”. If you are 30 pounds over you are labeled “Obese”. If you are 100 pounds over your balance mark you are classified as having “Morbid Obesity”.
The nurse came in and told me to take off everything but “my underwear.” I nodded but she turned around at the door and looked back.
“That means your bra too. Your bra is underwear.” She shrugged at my blank expression. “You’d be surprised at how many people don’t seem to know that.”
The doctor enters and looks at my chart and asks me if I had been put on the five year plan by mistake. I murmur that I have been really busy but have worn sunscreen all year. This is obviously a fib as my naked foot bears the tanned outline of a flip flop. Dr Robinson looks at me sharply as if I am an errant seventh grader who has just shot a spit ball from a hollow Bic pen. He is as pale as his lab coat—obviously involved in some study group that is test marketing SPF 340 from Banana Boat.
Apparently mole health is not a matter to ever be taken lightly.
He makes me stand while he puts on his skin miner’s helmet with a 900 watt light and flips down the magnifying lenses. The moment of truth. If I really had a sense of humor I would have worn a thong. The humiliation lasts for only a minute and then he asks me sit and he wipes the make-up from my face with alcohol swaps with the precision of one who has scraped and scaled pool tiles.
I am finally pronounced “Clear” but his voice is gravely and heavy. I am sure all my teen summers lying in the sun wearing baby oil and dissolved coffee, or baby oil and iodine are as evident as tattoos on my skin. We are such an informed public in 2008.
I feel a surge of sympathy for Dr. Robinson who must deal with the mass irregular moles, melanomas, and various skin eruptions that plague our community.
“My daughter is an ice-skater,” I offer.
He looks at me as if I had just announced that the cost of sun screen has just gone up to 3.97 a squirt.
“I mean she is inside, in the cold…not in the sun. She doesn’t go in the sun that much which is good, although it doesn’t seem fair because she doesn’t sweat.” He looks puzzled so I try to explain.
“Well, she sweats, but it mostly on her face when she is skating hard. She doesn’t sweat under her arms like the rest of us so she really doesn’t need to wear deodorant, but she does when she goes out—which is good because that’s a chemical and I’m sure that’s hard on the skin every day.”
He looks at me without a change of expression.
“I just thought you might like to know that ice skaters have great skin. Because they’re not in the sun.”
Dr. Robinson turns back to my chart, writes something (hopefully not “Obese”) and hands me a slip of paper to take to the receptionist.
She tells me, “No charge today and Dr. Robinson says he doesn’t need to see you for five years.”
Odd, but all my moles must be regular. At least now I have time to bring my BMI down to my DLW.
Mombo
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