I love my dermatologist. I've been seeing her now for at least six years. If I had met her at a party, she'd have become a good friend. Over the ten minutes or so that she examines my skin, we catch up on each other’s hair (she does the keratin-blow out too) and kids. It often feels more like a social visit than a medical one.
Last week I awoke with three dime-sized red itchy welts on my back. Two days later I had three more similar marks on my right wrist. I must have done a lot of scratching because now the top of my right hand is sporting a raised red rash. My biggest fear is that these are bed bug bites. Robyn and I checked out my bed (including underneath the mattress) and found nothing that was moving, but still. I was hoping my doctor would tell me that it was hives, brought on by stress (Alexander’s early decision application is due Monday, and it’s is still not submitted, despite being “almost done” for weeks. With Alexander, the space between done and almost done can be enormous). Instead, my doctor tells me that basically there is no sure way of knowing if my bites are from bed bugs. “If you wake up with more, you’ll know.” Not exactly the scientific analysis I was hoping to get.
Before leaving, my doctor’s assistant comes in. The last time I saw her was in February, or, 12 pounds ago. Lisa says, “You look wonderful. Just wonderful. I love your hair. The highlights look great. They’re lighter.” I tell her it’s probably not the hair, but rather my weight. “That too. Really, you look gorgeous. And so much younger. I’m not kidding, I had to do a double take when I first saw you.”
Maybe I shouldn’t wait six months to go back. Who knew that a visit to the dermatologist could be so uplifting.
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