Never trust a man with a Sharpie

My daughters were invited to a birthday party this weekend. It was held at the local bowling alley, which turned out to be surprisingly clean and free of cigarette smoke. While trotting over to the shoe man to exchange Mariah's bowling shoes for a different size, I noticed a large man waving at me from across the room.

It was our family doctor, Dr. Joe. He was making short work of a hot dog and fries, but he paused mid-bite and asked to look at my hands, which was nice of him to remember because it's been awhile since he's seen me. About two months ago I turned up at his office, convinced that I had either come down with the flu or I was dying. I also had this terrible thing (it was too strange to be classified as a simple rash...a plague, perhaps?) afflicting every square inch of my palms, but it had been there for several days and seemed to be getting better--or at least it looked that way to me. I've suffered from several different rashes off and on since middle school, so I don't freak out over these things as much as the average person. This particular case was the worst I ever had, though, and different from the others. I had hideous monster hands with pus-filled pockets (pardon me, all ye who are sqeamish). It was extremely painful, but also slightly fun, for example, when I raised my hand during Bible study and produced a synchronized gasp from 10 old ladies.

Anywho, as I was describing my flu-like symptoms, Dr. Joe looked up from my chart and caught a glimpse of my monster puss paws. He literally recoiled, launched his little rolling chair across the room and said, and I quote, "Oh, my God!"

Darn.

I suppose this is one of those frog in the frying pan situations. I had grown so accustomed to the monster puss paws that it didn't seem so bad. Dr. Joe insisted I go and see the oldest dermatologist in town...because evidently, I had been afflicted with a rash of biblical proportions, and he felt we might need the oldest living doctor to identify it. So first thing the next morning, I searched the house for some spare courage. Finding none, I settled instead for denial and headed off to the doctor.

Here's the thing: Unless you're in for the garden variety acne problem, dermatology almost always involves needles. And not the flu-shot variety. I can handle that. I'm talking about the never-ending sting that accompanies the administering of local anesthesia.

Dr. Glicksman ambled in, took one look at the monster puss paws, and drawled, "I've seen this. Pustular psoriasis." (Yes, it is exactly as gross as it sounds).

"Great. I'm glad you could figure that out just by looking," I replied, breathing a relieved sigh.

The two young nurses shot each other a loaded look. Then Dr. G. took out a sharpie and drew circles around two areas on my hand--the middle of my palm and the side of my pinkie. (note to self: next time, all gigantic hunks of flesh shall be extracted from the hand not responsible for driving, writing, diaper changing, tooth brushing, and other bathroom functions)

Damn you, Sharpie.

The metal tray held two needles the size of javelins. I was doomed, and I knew it, so I just laid down on the table, smiled sweetly at the closest nurse, and said, "You'll want to keep the trash can close by. You know, for when I vomit, then pass out."

The worst part is that next door a spunky old man who had just had, say, thirty skin cancers removed was cracking jokes and charming the nurse. I could hear him. While I was silently crying. Alas, I am not brave. Sympathetic nervous response, you stink. Vaso-vagal reflex, I hate you.

It turned out my outbreak had been triggered by the strep infection that I mistook for the flu or a case of impending death. By this time I had passed it on to Matt, then to Miles, whose fever reached almost 105 degrees the day before Thanksgiving. Thanks to the puss paws, Miles and I spent Thanksgiving day at home alone watching the Bourne trilogy and finishing off week-old soup.

Two weeks later I went back for the removal of the stitches and the unveiling of my biopsy results: pustular psoriasis.

"You know, I believed you when you said that the first time. You should trust your instincts," I grumbled, humorlessly.

Back at the bowling alley, I recounted my dermatology saga to Dr. Joe. He thinks needle-related passing out is funny.

I should have stolen some fries for that. Or at least contaminated them with my (dormant, at the moment) monster puss paws.