Skin: A Life of Bumps, Burns, and Biopsies

Skin: A Life of Bumps, Burns, and Biopsies

 

Ah, skin. My lifelong frenemy. We've had a relationship filled with more drama than a reality TV show. From the acne-ridden teenage years to the sunburn disasters and now, the never-ending saga of dermatologist visits, my skin has truly kept me on my toes.

Let’s start with my teenage years, a time when my skin decided to launch an all-out rebellion. Puberty hit, and my face turned into a war zone. Pimples and boils popped up like unwanted house guests who refused to leave. I had the infamous "T-zone," where my forehead, nose, and chin decided to produce enough oil to solve the global energy crisis. Every morning, I'd look in the mirror and play a game of "What New Nightmare Awaits?" It was like my face was hosting its own version of Whack-A-Mole.  I had to go to the doctor more than once, to have the boils lacerated off.

Early High school was particularly rough. I remember the horror of waking up on picture day with a pimple the size of Mount Everest on my nose. I named it "Rudolph," because there was no hiding its glowing red presence. My mom, ever the optimist, handed me a tube of concealer and said, "It's character-building, honey." Sure, Mom, but I'm pretty sure I had enough character to write a novel by then.

As if teenage acne wasn't enough, my teenage and early adult years brought another chapter: sunburn. I have the kind of skin that laughs in the face of sunscreen, but who used that, I used Johnson’s Baby Oil.   Ha! My skin burns like it’s on a mission to set a world record. One memorable summer, I went to the beach and came back looking like a lobster that had been left in the pot too long. My friends lovingly dubbed me "The Crimson Pomegranate.”

And when I did use sunscreen, it didn't matter how much sunscreen I slathered on. I could reapply every hour on the hour, but inevitably, I’d miss a spot, or it washed off. One time, I forgot to reapply it on my ears, and they burned so badly I had to walk around with two ice packs on the sides of my head. I looked like a bizarre DJ, and not the cool kind.

Starting in my sixties, my skin has taken on a new hobby: keeping dermatologists in business. I’m on a first-name basis with Dr. Hong, my dermatologist. We see each other more often than some of my friends. Every three months, I find myself in her office, wearing one of those stylish paper gowns that leave you feeling like a crumpled-up piece of trash.

Dr. Hong is a biopsy enthusiast. She looks at my skin like it’s a treasure map, and every skin color irregularity is a potential goldmine. "This one looks suspicious," she says, wielding her scalpel like a pirate hunting for doubloons. I've had so many biopsies that I’m considering asking for a frequent flyer discount.

Despite all the drama, I've come to terms with my skin. It’s a love-hate relationship, but mostly, it’s just comedic. From teenage pimples to terrible sunburns and now, quarterly biopsy adventures, my skin keeps life interesting. And hey, at least I've got plenty of stories to tell. So, here’s to my skin, my lifelong companion and source of endless amusement. May we continue this bumpy, burn-prone, and biopsy-filled journey together with a smile—and lots of sunscreen.