On Dermatology and Fishing: Uncomfortable doctor visits can help you stay on the water
Spending time outdoors takes its toll on the second largest organ of your body – your skin. Itchy spots and aberrant growth can be symptoms of skin cancer.
Consequently, regular skin care exams are on my busy retiree calendar. Most concerning was a tag on my right eyelid that suggested I wanted to meme an anglerfish.
On a recent visit to a dermatology clinic, circus-size posters on the wall touted skin toning, Botox injection, teeth caps, and fashion sunglasses. A man with gauze on his left cheek sat in the waiting area. Another man entered wearing blue surgeon’s gloves and Saran wrap up to his elbows. Both were my age– before helicopter moms chased children around with spray cans of SPF-80.
As I read about the latest celebrity breakup in a dog-eared People magazine, my name is called and a comely assistant leads me to an exam room. She instructs me to take off my clothes, but “leave on your underpants.” Reaching into a drawer, she pulls out a white paper towel and says, “To cover yourself depending on how modest you are.”
She exits. I undress and arrange my shorts and t-shirt in a neat pile on a hardback chair. Sandals are lined up on the floor, heels against the wall. I try for a good impression in public.
Moving to the exam bench, I swing my bare legs back-and-forth. My briefs are gratefully clean and elastic does not show through worn binding. Music piped from the 60’s channel drifts in from a hallway speaker, “These boots are made for walking.”
The assistant returns to the exam room and pretends to read my chart. I suck in my gut and watch an informational video about sunscreen pollutants on flat screen TV. A quick knock on the door announces the entrance of Dr. Berry (pseudonym). “Looks like you’ve been good,” he says, parting the thinning hair on my temple. “Any skin cancer in your family?” he asks.
“My Uncle and Mom. My family likes to spend time outdoors.”
“How often do you use sun screen?”
“I put some on last week when I went fishing. That was a first though. Anglers don’t like odd scent on their hands. It might chase fish away.”
What transpired next reduced his attention on irregular marks, scabs and other telltale signs of solar abuse. “Where does one take their kids to catch fish from the bank,” he asks.
“Depends on how old they are.”
“Two and five. The five-year old can cast. I have to keep my eyes on the two- year-old.”
“I started my grandkids off when they were four,” I say. “I handed them a fly rod, parked them at the head of a pool, and let them cast for small trout. You might try the same method on the Tucannon or Touchet River when flows drop.”
By now, the protective modesty towel is balled up in my left hand like an oversize cloth napkin after a six-course Chinese dinner.
“Stand up while I look at your legs,” Berry orders.
I stand straight and tall on the bottom step of the exam table. “You could try Cargill Pond. Put a worm on a number eight hook three feet below a bobber and wait for a bluegill to bite,” I say, gaining confidence in my near nakedness.
Admittedly I have experienced unsettling dreams about standing on public stage wearing only my briefs. A tidy whitie nightmare. Back when speaking in front of a large crowd was stressful. Not so today as I spill my guts to the doctor and his bored assistant about where youngsters might catch a fish.
“Scooteney Reservoir is a good place for yellow perch,” I add. “It’s about an hour north of the Tri-Cities.”
“How do you spell it?” His assistant perks up, pad and pen in hand.
“What about the Yakima River?” Berry asks.
“Flows are high now, but I would try for bass in early summer with a casting bubble and fly.”
“You should be charging me for all the info,” Berry says.
“How bout you burn off these two skin tags instead?” I reply, pointing to my ribcage. “It would keep me from trying to decide if they’re getting larger or changing color.”
“Those growths are normal,” he says, “however, we do need to take care of those precursors on your face.” He leans close and freezes off half of my forehead with several blasts of liquid nitrogen.
“Several small lakes along the Tucannon River have been stocked with rainbow trout,” I blurt. “Dalton Lake, five miles upstream of Ice Harbor Dam off Pasco-Kahlotus Road, has also been recently stocked.”
“Thanks for the fishing advice,” Berry says, as he heads out the door. “You can put your clothes back on now,” his assistant informs in a weary tone that suggests she’s seen more than enough of me.
My forehead feels like it’s on fire when I slip on my walking shorts and t-shirt. I vow to use sunscreen more diligently, but probably won’t.
Dennis Dauble is author of five books about fish, fishing, and human nature. He can be contacted at his website DennisDaubleBooks.com.
