DOB
10-15-64. I write my DOB on the top of the medical form and then fill out all the information. I am not sure why every time I have to answer the same questions. I wonder what they do with this information, because, quite frankly, it rarely seems as if anybody ever reads it. Not beyond the top anyway, that they use to call out my name like somehow they might remember me from the last time I was in.
I give the clipboard back to the receptionist and she asks me in a whisper (due to the new HIPPA regulations she can no longer scream out the question), and why are you here? I think the answer is obvious by just looking at me.
After all, my Irish heritage is the pure foundation of the science of dermatology. We are the lab rats for everystudy done on skin cancer. I respond, "I am here to see if any of my freckles have moved." She hardly even smiles.
Soon, I am with the doctor and am receiving the exact same information I do every year. He has plenty of time for the lecture about skin damage, which he spews as he waves the zapper gun around and looks for the next irregular spot. I guess if the spot is not perfectly symmetrical then it gets zapped. He makes a wonderful salary for taking no chances. He glances at my records and with his incredible mathematical mind, deduces that in a few weeks I turn 40. "Lots of skin damage, yep, lots of damage I am afraid," he says and hands me the pamphlet on the variety of BOTOX, face lift, and miracle creams. Then he goes to the cabinet and pulls out a dozen different sun screen samples.
He says, "Don't even walk outside of the house in the morning without some of this on." I wonder if now is the time to brag about the great tan I had in high school down in Ft. Lauderdale; I smattered on baby oil and laid on the beach for hours which produced a wonderful glow that allowed me to blend with the herd of spring break tourists. He asks me about my knees, which one of them is now wonderfully scabbed over from the latest fall while running and the other one sports wonderful layers of scars from years of abuse. "Yes, nobody in my family would possibly recognize me without skinned up knees." I laugh and continue, "These are 'mood ring' scars and they tell me when it's time to get out of the pool. If I am a tad too cold, they are purple." As I leave, I feel like somehow this should be the start of the midlife crisis, of some deep reflective moment about turning 40. After all, I have been waiting for that moment where I start to cry, to beg my husband that it's not too late for us to have children, or to get a tattoo on my lower back. You know, the tattoo that goes with the thong underwear, the low-riding jeans, and the pierced belly button.
10-15-64. I repeat the numbers with an automatic precision. And while everything changes, these numbers are the one thing that will never change. They will not be faded by the sun, need a face lift, or be scraped away by a nasty fall. And while they are not tattooed on my lower back, or anywhere else on my body, they will always be the number that I write next to my name every time I fill out a form. “Where were you on the night of 10-15-64?" I whisper, wanting to use these numbers in a sentence. I was being born in a hospital in Miami. And while I don't remember the details of the event, I am sure my mother could tell you a thing or two. She's also the one who can tell you how many times I came home as a kid with scraped up knees. I can hear her saying, "I always thought she would outgrow it."
I smile as I ride my bike home from the doctor's office. I am going to be 40 and I am still going to have scraped up knees. Not to mention a few other identifying marks from the latest sports: black grease on my calves from my bike, a small scrape on my right arm from hitting a tree while riding a horse, and a wonderful black bruise and a number of scrapes and bruises on my lower back from crashing on the scull while rowing.
I think about the bruises on my back. I will have to buy the low-riding jeans after all, just to show off my impressive new tattoo. And while my tattoo is not an exotic design, it does tell you that I am still not afraid to take the fall. Or in this case, to crash into an island in the middle of the river while going full speed backwardsin the scull.
I give the clipboard back to the receptionist and she asks me in a whisper (due to the new HIPPA regulations she can no longer scream out the question), and why are you here? I think the answer is obvious by just looking at me.
After all, my Irish heritage is the pure foundation of the science of dermatology. We are the lab rats for everystudy done on skin cancer. I respond, "I am here to see if any of my freckles have moved." She hardly even smiles.
Soon, I am with the doctor and am receiving the exact same information I do every year. He has plenty of time for the lecture about skin damage, which he spews as he waves the zapper gun around and looks for the next irregular spot. I guess if the spot is not perfectly symmetrical then it gets zapped. He makes a wonderful salary for taking no chances. He glances at my records and with his incredible mathematical mind, deduces that in a few weeks I turn 40. "Lots of skin damage, yep, lots of damage I am afraid," he says and hands me the pamphlet on the variety of BOTOX, face lift, and miracle creams. Then he goes to the cabinet and pulls out a dozen different sun screen samples.
He says, "Don't even walk outside of the house in the morning without some of this on." I wonder if now is the time to brag about the great tan I had in high school down in Ft. Lauderdale; I smattered on baby oil and laid on the beach for hours which produced a wonderful glow that allowed me to blend with the herd of spring break tourists. He asks me about my knees, which one of them is now wonderfully scabbed over from the latest fall while running and the other one sports wonderful layers of scars from years of abuse. "Yes, nobody in my family would possibly recognize me without skinned up knees." I laugh and continue, "These are 'mood ring' scars and they tell me when it's time to get out of the pool. If I am a tad too cold, they are purple." As I leave, I feel like somehow this should be the start of the midlife crisis, of some deep reflective moment about turning 40. After all, I have been waiting for that moment where I start to cry, to beg my husband that it's not too late for us to have children, or to get a tattoo on my lower back. You know, the tattoo that goes with the thong underwear, the low-riding jeans, and the pierced belly button.
10-15-64. I repeat the numbers with an automatic precision. And while everything changes, these numbers are the one thing that will never change. They will not be faded by the sun, need a face lift, or be scraped away by a nasty fall. And while they are not tattooed on my lower back, or anywhere else on my body, they will always be the number that I write next to my name every time I fill out a form. “Where were you on the night of 10-15-64?" I whisper, wanting to use these numbers in a sentence. I was being born in a hospital in Miami. And while I don't remember the details of the event, I am sure my mother could tell you a thing or two. She's also the one who can tell you how many times I came home as a kid with scraped up knees. I can hear her saying, "I always thought she would outgrow it."
I smile as I ride my bike home from the doctor's office. I am going to be 40 and I am still going to have scraped up knees. Not to mention a few other identifying marks from the latest sports: black grease on my calves from my bike, a small scrape on my right arm from hitting a tree while riding a horse, and a wonderful black bruise and a number of scrapes and bruises on my lower back from crashing on the scull while rowing.
I think about the bruises on my back. I will have to buy the low-riding jeans after all, just to show off my impressive new tattoo. And while my tattoo is not an exotic design, it does tell you that I am still not afraid to take the fall. Or in this case, to crash into an island in the middle of the river while going full speed backwardsin the scull.
