I’m trying not to freak out and panic after leaving the doctor’s office two days ago looking like Jake Gittes post-reservoir.
I’d used the topical chemotherapy the doctor had prescribed for small but worrying sun spots and in some cases it seemed to be working. But this one, well he had to take a biopsy. Cut a tiny piece of skin from the side of my nose to send to a lab to diagnose for skin cancer.
He kept telling me, in French, that I’m too young for this, “how old are you again?” as if no one below senior citizen age in the history of modern civilization has had to deal with damage from the too much sun many of us had when we were young. Please, somebody tell me this happens all the time, nothing unusual, easily taken care of as long as the necessary steps are followed in a timely manner. Isn’t that what you want a doctor to say?
The doctor knows I’m a performer – do you stand at the front or back of the stage? he asked, of course leaving me convinced I’ll end up so disfigured I’ll have to wear a veil for the rest of my life. Oh wait, they’ve banned the burka in France. So maybe if I have to I can learn to take it like a man, like Keith, flaunt the scars and dents.
So, if I’m a little silent, a little preoccupied, aside from a full home redecoration I’m waiting for the results of the lab test to help me figure out what I have to do next. And walking around looking vaguely dangerous.
Forget it. It’s Chinatown.