On being Irish

And English and German.....

A combination that, for all intents and purposes, renders one immune to the thing commonly referred to as "a tan," no matter how hard we might have tried in our youth to get one.

I mean, who cares if we're all gorgeous in our youth, sunning ourselves on the back deck, slathering ourselves in baby oil in an attempt to get that "deep golden tan," when all that the slathering and baking is going to get you is the distinct possibility of having to dose ourselves in our 40's with a chemotherapeutant that will turn our faces into bright red masks that highlight where our sun-damaged skin is currently cooking up some pre-cancerous lesions?

Well, lemme tellya, folks, WE, the pale-skinned and freckled masses, should care, because it could happen to us.

It did to me. Yesterday.

The PA who examined me said to the nurse "I think we should F-U-dex her," which sounded to me like quite the walloping dose of disrespect and not a very great bedside manner, until I learned that what she was really doing was presecribing "Efudex," a creme that contains an agent normally used to treat cancer.

Say it with me, y'all - Cancer.

Eek!

The good news is, no cancer yet, not for me, but the treatment they give you to be sure you DON'T get cancer is the treatment some people receive once they DO have cancer, so there you go.

And, I say! It's divine! The joy of the fluorouracil creme! The "slight burning and itching" as a likely side effect! The spectre of the scabby cooked-lobster appearance I will sport in my future! The TOTAL SUN AVOIDANCE necessary to complete this course of therapy! The fact that I have to treat myself, twice a day for 2 weeks, with this crap, and then wait another month or so until my face is truly healed, then have to use SPF 30 everyplace the sun do shine for the rest of my life! The klaxons that were sounded at this wonderful news! The raptures I expereinced at this loud announcement of my inevitable travels into later-middle age!

Oh yes, internets, there will be pictures. If I have to suffer, then let my suffering be posted far and wide so that some other young Irish girl with blond hair, blue eyes, and freckles (let's leave all those moles out of the pitcutre for now, shall we?) can look at them and say "you know what? Nicole Kidman has the right idea. Pale is the new black."

Oh, and just so you know, even after only my second application of the F-U creme (hee!), I'm experiencing a burning sensation that I can imagine will only grow in intensity with time. And you know what? I'm only doing my FOREHEAD right now! The rest of the face still needs to be treated!

Joy abounding.

Stupid sun.

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Maybe news headlines later, maybe not. Why you ask? Welllllll,

Today I'm going to a neurologist, who will ask me "so, Tiff, what about those visual auras you've been having, and for how long, and why haven't you SEEN anyone about this before, and maybe let's just go ahead and give you an MRI so we can take a peek inside yor skull and see if there's really a brain there at all or if maybe you're one of those people who has just a tee-tiny little rim of gray matter surrounding bloated vestibules filled to overflowing with CSF and then we'll write you up in a respected medical journal and we'll go on teevee with you as our "exhibit A" about how people with enormous cranial deficiencies can lead productive lives and you'll be all embarrassed but that's OK because then maybe you'll get long-term disability and start that dryer-lint knitting bizness you've been thinking about."

So, maybe I'm not feeling all that up to being clever today. Really, there's a chance I might not have the brain capacity with which to be clever! Ain't that some shit!

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Now, back to figuring out how to ignore my burning forehead, and if burkas are acceptable corporate wear.

I think I'm going to need one from here on out.

Random add-on - I think this is cool.

UPDATE - The brain doctor says I have "classic" migraine, so yay for that, but a big boo that I can't have an MRI to look inside my own head. I was rather looking forward to that! However, when the doc says you're OK, there's no sense arguing with him, especially when he's 6'5" and has a handshake that could crush cement.