Fun with scalpels

So I went to the dermatologist yesterday. A French dermatologist. Which is fine. The French part I mean. Except not really. Don't get me wrong, the doctors I've been to here have been really good for the most part. Well, except for those four. But really, who's counting?

So like I was saying, I went to the dermatologist yesterday. Thus far I've made a point of avoiding going to the American Hospital. It's all the way in the suburbs, and what's so great about American hospitals, anyway? But after 10 months of having this weird patch of skin on my, hhm, my ... hhm ... left ..., let's just say orb, I broke down and found a doctor at the American Hospital. I assumed by her name that she was French when I made the appointment, but I figured that since she has an office in the American Hospital, and because the American Hospital is supposed to be good, I'll give it a shot. She can't be any worse than the first dermatologist I went to. Did I mention I've had this weird skin thing for 10 months now? If it were a kid, this would be over with by now.

She seemed to be nice and thorough at the beginning. She asked me all these questions and tried to get a complete family history. That's kind of hard though when YOU WORK AT THE AMERICAN HOSPITAL AND YOU ONLY SPEAK FRENCH TO YOUR PATIENTS. I mean, I'm all for trying to speak French whenever possible, like when I buy cheese. Or bread. Even when I pick up a package from the concierge type person. But trying to describe various skin ailments? Not happening. To be honest, though, I didn't really care. I just wanted her to tell me what my weird skin thing was, to give me a cream, an ointment, a lotion, a gel, anything, and to get the hell out of there.

We finally get to the actual physical examination part. I don't know what I like the best about physical exams here in France, the fact that they don't give you anything to cover yourself with or the fact that they leave the window curtains open. Nah, I've decided, it's the windows. Definitely. But I'm determined not to be a prude, so I calmly get undressed and lie down on the table buck naked. That's when the doctor tells me she is going to have to take a biopsy, which is fine by me because this thing is really itchy and not at all attractive on my, hhm, orb.

First, she starts with the local anesthetic. She explains that this will sting a little but the pain will be less than cutting me without it. Cool, no problem, go right ahead. Then, she takes this pointy sharp thing and starts making several holes into the area. When I flinch from the pain, she goes "Oh, was the anesthetic not enough?" I guess the flinching was her first clue. So, I get another needle to the orb, which does not feel good. When I see her grabbing her little knife again, I braced myself. This is a good thing, because once again, the anesthesia was not enough. And she's definitely being less gentle at this point, because getting the shot was worse the second time around. When she makes her "What A Wimp" face, I know I have to suck it up and take the pain. She takes the specimen and walks away and I think, ok, that sucked but it wasn't so bad. My mistake. She comes back three more times, poking and prodding and cutting. But whatever. I'm calm, I'm easy, I roll with it. I close my eyes and go to my happy place, which is a really good thing because she starts cauterizing the open, gaping wound. That's when I thought, "Is Panagiota Alexandropoulos going to have to choke a bitch?" Why cauterize? It wasn't bleeding that much. A bandage would have been sufficient. I'm not trying to be a whiner, but having an open cut on your orb burned with no pain medication is not very pleasant. And just when I think it's over, she brings the needle and thread and starts sewing me up. Just to be clear, that also did not feel good. So rather than have an unidentified itchy thing on my orb, I now have a gouged, scarred, burned itchy thing on my orb. And I still have no idea what it is.

I can't wait until my gynecologist appointment tomorrow....