get your fucking skin checked
the short story, in haiku form:
dermatologist
every square inch got perused
nothing but good news
the long story, in rambling form: my mom drilled a lot of things into me over the years and it wasn’t all just about the beatles, dr hook, or the relative beauty of elvis and jagger. there was the absurd “don’t drink from a random glass of water on the counter because it might be lye; you don’t know”; the practical “books are your friends. don’t throw them on the floor or dog ear their pages. would you dog ear your friend?”; the best advice “don’t be a fair weather friend”; and the life saving “get your fucking skin checked.” (her exact words, y’all, not mine.)
so i got my fucking skin checked on the regular as an adult. just like me, she had a shit ton of freckles and moles. later in life she also had problems with squamous cell and basil cell carcinomas and had a whole bunch of them removed over the years. we also both mistreated our skin as teens: she laid out in the sun (probably using baby oil and iodine) and i worked on a farm and never ever wore a shirt. or sunscreen. the only thing worse than cutting tobacco with a shirt on is doing it with your shirt off and wearing sunscreen (sticky, dirty, and hotter than a hell). my regular plan was to get out there and get a good sunburn as soon as possible so i wouldn’t have to worry about it for the rest of the season. fast forward to 2005 where i’m telling her that they found a melanoma on my back and her response was “are you fucking kidding me?!”
i *used* to have this giant birthmark on my back. if you knew me as a kid, you probably remember seeing it and thinking “wtf is that thing?!?” because even though i found it impossibly embarrassing, i was almost always shirtless. it was the size of my palm, dead center between my shoulder blades, all different colors of brown, had a ton of hair growing out of it, grossed out everybody, and worried every dermatologist i ever had. in 4th grade, some kid at 4h camp teased me about it and that was the first time i ever told somebody to “fuck off”. i’d heard mom and her sister bettie say it a million times, but finally, i knew how cathartic it was. my parents called it my “off switch”. if i was getting too rowdy or pelting them with a barrage of questions, they’d gently press on it, tell me to be quiet, and i’d shutdown like a little robot and go read a book or something. wide eyed dermatologists would invariably gasp and ask how long i’d had it; had it ever changed; and if it did that i needed to get it checked out right away.
right away came in 2005. one day i notice my birthmark was extra itchy. my friend looked at it and saw a tiny white dot, about the size of the head of a pin. i was on the phone with my dermatologist within minutes. i’d been seeing dr tavelli for a few years already and he’d removed and biopsied several annoying moles by that point. he said the little white dot was definitely weird, was probably nothing, but he’d biopsy just to be sure. a week later, he called me and told me it was actually a malignant melanoma, but it was the best case scenario. it was stage zero and had barely broken thru the first couple of layers of skin, meaning it probably hadn’t metastasized. he couldn’t believe we’d found it so early. the bad news, though, was that i’d have to have the whole birthmark surgically removed to make sure. he sent me to a surgeon. the 4th grader in me rejoiced and told that little camper to fuck off again.
the surgeon, dr zelko, was awesome. he gave me the full rundown on what they’d do, how the size of the excision complicated things, that they wouldn’t be able to do a skin graft, that they’d have to undercut the skin, pull the edges together, and stitch it up tight, that i wouldn’t have any feeling on most of my back, and that i was going to have a big, gnarly scar. i asked him if he’d actually *seen* the big, gnarly, melanoma ridden birthmark on my back and that i’d take a cool scar and a story over that fucker any day of the week. plus, in the words of captain lance murdock, “chicks dig scars.” dr zelko then did one of the coolest things i’ve ever experienced. he knew that i didn’t have insurance, and even though this consultation was taking place in his office at the hospital he worked in, he said “let’s do this outpatient at my clinic, it will cost you at least ten times less.” it ended up being the best $3000 i ever spent (this is how healthcare should work). dr zelko removed the birthmark and a significant part of my childhood, the margins were clear, there was no additional melanoma found, and i would spend the next 16 years regularly getting my fucking skin checked by dr tavelli.
because of these stupid melanomas in my noggin, i figured it’d be smart to go get my fucking skin checked again. i hadn’t seen dr tavelli since 2021 because of covid. i knew that he had moved to a new practice, but i didn’t know he was retiring. when i called the new office for an appointment, they explained that he wasn’t accepting new patients because he’s only in the office two days a week and he’s retiring in july. i told them i wasn’t really a new patient and explained my situation and they said “we’ll get back to you.” an hour later i got a call: “dr tavelli can see you tomorrow at 1:30.” shit yeah!
carol and rolled up to the new office. a spectacular mid century modern medical building i’d always wanted to see inside of (careful what you wish for). the inside is still decorated in a mid century vibe and the new office had a medi spa feel. the only dr i’ve seen more in my life was my childhood physician dr norvell, who i simply called wyatt because i saw him weekly until i was in the sixth grade and regularly into my early 20s. so it was great to be greeted by dr tavelli’s assistant, lara, who i’ve known for almost 20 years. dr tavelli (i’ve never been bold enough to call him bert), shook my hand warmly, with both hands (i wanted to hug him, but i’ll take a two handed hand shake). then we just sat there looking at each other for a couple seconds until he finally smiled and blurted out “*bummer*, huh?” carol and i both laughed out loud. that, the dark humor, was exactly what i needed to hear. we chatted for a minute, he talked about how this (a recurrence of melanoma after almost 20 years) almost never happens, how technology has improved at an amazing rate, that twenty years ago i would have been “a goner with maybe a 5% chance and that’d have been dumb luck” (again with the much needed morbid humor), and then he got down to business looking intently at every square inch of my skin. the dude can read a room, too. sensing carol’s nervousness (and her dislike of the morbid), he included her in the survey, showing her 10 year old pictures of my weird moles, noting how little they’ve changed, and how there was nothing to be concerned about. in the end, he said everything looked good, that i should come back in 3 months for another skin check with his colleague, he wished me luck on my adventure, and bam, he was out out of the room like batman, on to help other people with their weird skin. apologies to my patient and teacherly childhood dr norvell; my practical, no nonsense surgeon dr zelko; my flexing neurosurgeon dr gore; and my hilarious radiation oncologist dr seung; all of whom saved my life at least once, but i am never going to have another dr like bert tavelli. i hope you have a great retirement, buddy.
finally friends, get your fucking skin checked.
