I had a doctor's appointment Friday with a dermatologist as a follow-up to my diagnosis awhile back of Sjogren's Syndrome which, and you'll find this amusing I suspect (I know I do), affects women far more often than men (nine out of ten incidences). I assumed, based on the original diagnosis, I'd developed a fondness for Ingmar Bergman films, and I wasn't sure how many times I could sit through Scenes from a Marriage or Cries and Whispers. Turns out I worried for nothing.
I've not yet gone to see a specialist for my dry eyes--I originally got glasses when my eyes were sore, I thought, from trying to see other peoples' points of view, but it turns out that wasn't the cause. So I have thyroid conditions, maybe, that are part of Sjogren's--but definitely skin care concerns.
The dermatologist is very cool and a really nice person. At some level, he has to look at me and know, no amount of topical solutions or prescription medications, even from and for the inside out, are going to do me any good. Beauty may be skin deep but ugly goes all the way to the bone and I am big-boned. The doctor, as is typical on a first visit when you (as the patient) are not actually on fire, is starting slow and staying low (I'm channeling the Reverend Jackson; perhaps a symptom?) and gave me a handful of skin care products to try out along with a follow-up appointment in a couple of months (to see how much more like a Wreck on the Highway I can actually resemble, I suspect). He even gave me a prescription for a tube of what looks like caulk, but isn't (I hope).
I brought my product samples home in this kissing to be clever bag (another aspect to that nine of ten cases incidence rate...) and was surprised at how much interest in this stuff my Thelma and Louise had. Actually, surprised wasn't the word--disquieted comes closer to capturing the feeling. I felt like the Avon lady at feeding time. I did decide that if I had a questions about how to use any of the goop I'd gotten, I had all the expertise I'd ever need already in the house.
Logistics is proving to be a bit of a challenge. With our daughter home for the summer from college, I get to share the bathroom vanity and storage space with TWO women and since the sharing with one woman for the last thirty-one years has gone so well, don't even ask how I'm faring. I'd grok around the clock if I could, but fear Bill Haley's estate would have a lawsuit on me faster than I could apply this SPF 70 sunscreen. I get so nervous, I break out out in a rash. Luckily, I've got that covered, literally as well as figuratively.