“What’s this?” My dermatologist pointed to a bronzed arm. I was sixteen.
“Uh, my shoulder?”
“No, it’s a tan line and you know how I feel about tans.”
Dr. Crutcher hated tans.
“Look doc, I don’t want your beef. Just gimme my zit meds and let me get the hell outta here. I’m losing precious pool time.”
At sixteen, being tan was the only way to be in a bikini. And it was the only way to actually make your thighs look thinner and your skin clearer in one afternoon. Tanning rocked.
“I am withholding your erythromycin until you start using sunscreen.”
“Damnit, doc.” I looked down at my golden legs dangling over the side of the examination table. He had me between a rock and a pimply place. I relented.
“Fine, gimme a bag of those SPF samples and make ‘em 30.”
I begrudgingly started using them, but only on my face. I was not about to lose all my hard work just because some dough-faced doctor told to me to.
Until Dr. Crutcher—like moms across the world—turned out to be right.
I was eighteen and in for a routine check-up.
“That mole on your ankle, it looks suspicious. You’re going under the knife.”
It was a simple procedure and I thought I was done. Then the pathology report came back.
“We’re going in for more tissue. That mole turned out to have abnormal cellular changes.”
When I returned, a different surgeon cut me up. There was a sale on SPF 50 sunscreen, so Dr. Crutcher was out renting a U-Haul.
“I sewed up thousands in ’Nam,” said the friendly replacement. “So I know what I’m doing. There will barely be a scar.”
He, too, was right. There is barely a mark on my ankle, but the incision, in addition to the pamphlets in the waiting room showing what my skin could have looked like had my pathology report showed malignancy, made a lasting impression. I finally realized what Dr. Crutcher had known since day one: I am a walking risk factor for skin cancer. Light skin, light eyes, plenty of burns as a teen, and a plethora of moles.
