I AM NOT AN ANIMAL

I AM NOT AN ANIMAL...

Well, if nothing else, at least I can tell people that I have been shot in the face with a laser.

No, I didn’t have a little "accident" while taking apart the stereo. This was done voluntarily, by a person with medical training.

It all started a couple of years ago when I developed this...this...thing on my face. Now, before you start conjuring up John Hurt images, hear me out. It wasn’t anything even very noticeable to most people. It was basically a little red spot right under my eye.

When it first came up, I just took my standard course of medical action, which was to ignore it. I have used this same approach to numerous medical conditions, and it has worked at least a good 50 percent of the time.

I was pretty happy with this medical solution of doing nothing for two reasons: (1) There was a fairly solid guarantee that I would not get a shot and (2) I would not have to deal with my insurance company. Based on the success I have had dealing with my insurance company, I have come to the conclusion that their entire claims department is staffed by possums. Or geese. Or some other animal lacking the ability to reason.

You can imagine that I was less than thrilled when, after about six months, the spot was still there. I broke down and went to my dermatologist. For the record, she is not strictly my dermatologist. I believe she has other patients as well. Plus, if I’m keeping someone on retainer, dermatologist is way down on the list. Nothing against them, but I’m thinking the first order of business is hiring a driver, a gardener, and the Bud Girls.

My dermatologist told me that the spot was called something with a difficult name to pronounce, and then gave me a common name for it which I have since forgotten. She said it had something to do with the blood vessels in my face revolting against the system and welling up to the top in protest. Or something like that. I can’t remember. Anyway, she decided that the next logical step was stick me in the face with a needle, zap me on the face with some bizarre dermatological torture device, and then send me off to deal with the insurance possums.

But the spot was gone, at least for a little while. Showing all the character of an unwanted relative, the thing returned a few months later. I went back to the dermatologist, and she said that oftentimes the spots will return, I guess as sort of a courtesy call. We went through the motions again (stick, zap, possums).

I had gone several months without the little bugger returning, when one morning I was looking at the mirror, and there was my little friend, just happy as a clam to be back under my eye. I went back to the dermatologist and laid it out for her, "Doc," I said, "I’m sick of having this thing. Get your chainsaw. Start at the neck."

Sensing my urgency, she offered a different plan: laser. She said that her office had a laser machine on loan for one day a month, and that the laser would blast that thing off my face like a cruise missile, only without blowing up the surrounding buildings as well. I thought about it for a good four or five nanoseconds and said, "Sign me up."

When the morning of my procedure came, I was pretty geared up. At last, this thing would be gone and I could remove the burlap covering and live like a human being, not fearing the vicious taunts of wretched children as I strolled through the streets of London and...oh, wait. John Hurt again. Anyway, as I entered the office, she escorted me back to a small room near the back of the building. There, in the middle of the room, was the big, freaky contraption that actually kind of looked like dental equipment. Regardless, I had faith that the device was the answer to my problems.

Then I looked around the room and noticed two other people, standing in the room to help, I brilliantly surmised. I began to wonder what kind of "standard" procedure needed three people for one patient. Were they there for restraint, maybe?

One of the helpers handed me a pair of glasses, similar to the kinds that people wear when they go in tanning booths. The only difference is that these were metal and, I believe, had been stored in a deep freeze for the past 50 or so years. I put on the ice goggles and stretched out on my back on the table in the room. "OK," she said, "this may hurt just a little bit."

Oh, my dermatologist! She’s such a kidder! Always joking, saying things like, "this may hurt just a little bit," when what she really meant was "If you want a comparable sensation, stick your face under a sewing machine and get to sewing!"

Apparently, my wincing and groaning caught her attention. "Oh, Michael. It doesn’t hurt that bad." And then, she did something far more painful than any laser surgery. "Michael," she said, "there was an 8-year-old girl in here before and she said it didn’t hurt." Ouch. Direct hit to the manliness. Immediately, I took this as my cue to inform her that it did not hurt at all, and I was simply...uh...rehearsing for a play?

Amazingly, I walked off on my own strength, and was even able to go to work and finish the day. And the best part is that the spot is gone. Hopefully, it’s gone for good. But, if not, I will bravely head back to the dermatologist’s office for round two. Besides, I can’t let an 8-year-old girl show me up.