86 or 68?

A few months ago I took one of those online quizzes about your lifestyle and medical history. Eventually it told me I would live to the age of 86, and since then has sent me at least 86 years worth of spam, and not the kind used to make musubi.

The questions on this site must have somehow overlooked my sedentary lifestyle, as my lack of energy is rivaled only by the lack of sub-prime mortgage money in today's market. It occurred to me that a trip to an acupuncturist to stick a few pins in my qi might be time well spent. I dug through the yellow pages to find a real doctor who also did acupuncture in hopes that my insurance would pay for the treatment.

On my first visit to the guy I'll call Dr. Kwak (pun intended), he started with shoulder and back massage, then asked me to remove my shirt for some needlework. Almost immediately he told me I needed to see a dermatologist. "Why, because of that blackhead pimple on my back?"

"That's no pimple," says Dr. Kwak (pun intended), "that's a melanoma." I didn't hear much after that. He had his receptionist make me an appointment with a dermatologist, but almost 3 weeks later. When I got home I called every other dermatologist in the phone book, trying to get an earlier appointment. But the receptionist had already found the earliest available, and I had to wait.

I could find nothing on the internet that supported Kwak's assessment of my "blackhead," but also didn't want to simply be in denial. The internet statistics of melanoma patients surviving beyond 5 years were not good. Suddenly the digits of my life expctancy were transposed. Dr. Kwak (pun intended) had done a lot to puncture my qi.

I have zero genetic disposition to cancer. (I confirmed that with a few surreptitions questions to siblings.) My only real genetic health concern has been heart disease, and to date there has been no evidence that I inherited any of those genes. So of course I'll live forever. But only five years? That certainly gives one a lot to think about. And nearly 3 weeks to dwell on it.

When the dermatologist said, "Who told you that's a melanoma? That's a sebaceous cyst," my relief was huge. "Super," I said, "I can live with that." "No you can't," she said, "I'm going to take it out right now." The room filled with giddy nurses who were clearly thrilled to be doing something other than dispensing acne medicine. I reveled along with them as they stuck a few needles in me then replaced my cyst with a divot. I feel like I dodged a bullet, even though the gun was never actually loaded.

Aside from getting over my anger at Dr. Kwak for scaring me to death, my biggest problem since seeing the dermatologist has been changing the bandage in the middle of my back.

But again, I can live with that.