As some of you may know, I have a history of precancerous moles, and an incessant fear that at any moment, I’m about to die of melanoma.
You would think that having a husband who works as a Dermatology Physician Assistant would be extremely convenient as I could schedule my monthly mole checks with him in the comfort of our own home.
And that’s where you’d be wrong.
A few weeks ago I requested that Scott come into the bathroom during a Tosh.0 commercial break and look me over. I’d had two dreams in the past week that I was dying of cancer, one of which involved me being extremely grouchy during my last Christmas and refusing to open my gifts as “none of them were expensive enough.”
While this was probably just my inner psyche letting me know I’m a terrible and shallow person, I took it to be an extremely bad omen and wanted to have my moles examined as soon as possible.
“Just call the clinic and make an appointment.” Scott responded.
Huh? Why on earth would I call and make an appointment, drive all the way into Scott’s office, and then pay for a ten minute skin check when I could get one for free, right now, in the master bathroom?
Naturally, his suggestion made me a tad bit snarky.
“Oh…yeah, okay. I’ll call tomorrow and make an appointment. Oh…and just so you know, the next time you’d like me to cook supper? I’ll need you to call at least two hours in advance and put your name in. Otherwise, I might be tied up doing something important.”
“Important?” he challenged.
“The Real Housewives of New York are totally important.”
“Katrina,” he sighed, “Relax. I just want to be able to do something like this in my element. We have nice bright lights and magnifying glasses at the clinic. I’ll be able to give you a much more thorough examination. I can just do the check in one of the exam rooms when you pick me up from work tomorrow, and then if you need anything removed, we can schedule an appointment then, alright?”
As much as I hated to admit it…this kind of made sense.
I arrived to pick Scott up from the clinic, surprised to see him making a beeline for the back exit.
“Hey…where are you going?” I cried, ”Aren’t you going to do my skin check?”
“Oh…yeah. Sorry, I forgot. Just go into room number two and undress. I’ll be in there in just a second.”
I did as he said, yelling “I’M READY!!!” as soon as the clothes had come off.
He entered the room and immediately started laughing. I stood there, naked and vulnerable, wondering what was so funny about my birthday suit.
“Katrina…you didn’t have to take off your underwear!” he guffawed.
I mean…it’s not like this is his first time seeing the Katrina show.
“I was wearing yoga pants!” I whimpered. For some reason I suddenly felt embarrassed. This is my husband! Why do I feel embarrassed?!
“So?” he shrugged.
“SO, when you wear yoga pants, you don’t wear underwear. Everybody knows that.”
“Uh…I’m going to beg to differ on that one. I’m pretty sure most people wear underwear with their yoga pants.” he remarked dryly.
“Whatever. There could have been moles beneath that underwear. Not wearing underwear may have just saved my life.”
He rolled his eyes so dramatically, for a split second, I feared he may be experiencing an epileptic seizure.
“I don’t see what’s so funny in the first place,” I scoffed, “It’s not like you’ve never seen me naked before.”
“Right, but I’ve never walked into an exam room with someone naked as a jaybird, just standing there staring at me. It struck me as funny. I’m sorry.”
“I’m your wife! And you just laughed at me! Because I was naked! I think that means you have to buy me jewelry or something.”
“I’m not buying you jewelry. Just lie down on the table and let’s get this over with.”
I’ve had my fair share of skin checks. One every six months for the past six years, to be exact. I know what to expect in this type of situation. That being said, I must say that I’ve never had someone do the exam more quickly, and with less attention to detail. It’s as if he wasn’t even trying because I wasn’t a “real” patient…he simply wanted to get home as quickly as possible to eat supper.
A supper for which he had not called in advance and put his name in for.
“Okay…all done!” he said. “Looks good. Keep an eye on that one on your thigh, and the dark one on your right arm, but I don’t think anything needs to come off today.”
“You didn’t check the bottoms of my feet.” I remarked.
He quickly gave the soles of my feet a one over.
“Their fine. No discoloration.”
“What about in between my toes?”
He quickly glanced at them.
“Looks fine to me.”
“Aren’t you going to check my scalp?”
He moved me over into the light, and began combing through my hair.
“Jeez, Katrina. You’re roots are really bad.”
“You know what? You’re going to feel absolutely terrible for saying that when I die of skin cancer.”
He finished checking my scalp, and I stood up to get dressed.
Suddenly, there was more giggling.
“What is it now?” I seethed.
“Look…look at the sweaty imprints your butt cheeks left on the paper!” he chuckled.
I let out a long, exasperated sigh.
“No offense, Scott, but you seriously need to work on your bedside manner.”