lost in translation…

I’d like to think I’m somewhat of an expert at doctor’s appointments.  I rarely went to the doctor as a kid, so when I became chronically ill a few years ago, doctor visits were foreign territory. However, regular appointments (including a week of multiple daily tests and appointments at Mayo) over the years has turned me into a pro.

After so many visits, each sterile, vacant waiting room starts to look the same. Sure, seeing what Goofus and Gallant are up to in that 1992 edition of Highlights magazine is a great break from discovering what new decorations Martha Stewart is making this month with fabric swatches and some string. But otherwise, all waiting rooms look the same. As do the exam rooms. Even the doctors, with their white lab coats, shiny loafers, and spectacles perched high on their nose, all start to bear a striking resemblance.

Some doctor visits are great, like my first visit with my POTS cardiologist where he spent over an hour-and-a-half answering all my questions and validating my symptoms. Some are awful, like the one where the doctor offered absolutely no medical advice, but proceeded to ask me for free legal advice.

With all of the visits, I have become very comfortable at doctor’s offices, perhaps overly so. Thin, green paper gowns are starting to seem like viable wardrobe options for lounging around the house. I have even asked on a few occasions if I could get an extra gown to take home, although the general consensus seems to be that my insurance company wouldn’t appreciate the price tag.

Regular visits have also made me fairly fluent in “doctor speak”. I can generally express my symptoms and concerns and understand the doctor’s response. But, occasionally, something is lost in translation.

Last month, after taking a look at my rashes, my physician referred me to a dermatologist. As I have mentioned before, I often have at least a small rash somewhere on my body. It starts as small splotch of itchy skin and usually develops into a red, bruise-like rash. The physician’s office took care of all the details regarding the referral, so the dermatology office called me just to set the date and time.

I arrived at my dermatology appointment makeup, nail polish and hair product free, as required, and donned the stylish, paper-thin gown. I don’t usually wear a ton of makeup, but I ALWAYS have on toenail polish. A nail-polish nazi friend from college brainwashed me to believe that one cannot wear flip flops without painted toes. And, here in southern CA, we always wear flips.

You can tell you go to the doctor too much when you’re more self-conscious about the doctor seeing your toes without nail polish than seeing your naked boobs.

Unfortunately I didn’t have any rashes the day of the appointment, but figured I could describe what they look like and show a few rash selfies to the doctor. So, the doctor entered, had me take off the gown, and quickly inspected my skin. About two minutes later, he declared me cancer-free and said I could go.

Wait….what?

I don’t have skin cancer. I know I don’t. I never suspected I might. Skin cancer does not run in my family. I have few enough freckles that I could name them, a handful of small moles, and no abnormal growths. I spend the majority of my time inside working or napping, and my skin is so white that it’s becoming translucent. So, why my physician scheduled an all-over skin cancer check with the dermatologist, I’ll never understand.

Something definitely got lost in translation.

On a positive note, I asked the nurse about where to get some of those patient gowns for home. Apparently you can order them online in all different styles, including leopard print. Might be a sexy way to hide these rashes.

How about you? Ever have any appointments where something was lost in translation?

“The word ‘translation’ comes, etymologically, from the Latin for ‘bearing across’. Having been borne across the world, we are translated men. It is normally supposed that something always gets lost in translation; I cling, obstinately to the notion that something can also be gained.” – Salman Rushdie

Smell ya later.
– Linds