Jimmy Buffet's gift
Serenading our trips around the sun
When Jimmy Buffet died a few days ago, I was saddened by the news. Yet another gifted performer in my age range had left this world. I thought of all the wonderful songs the man wrote. All of the songs that transported me to the Key West of my imagination.
When I read that Buffet was taken by an aggressive skin cancer I selfishly began to ruminate over of a mole on my back that I had ignored for years. And having already survived one form of cancer I finally did what I had put off for years. Get it checked out.
Ellen, I think I’m going to have to make an appointment with a dermatologist.
What?
To get my derm checked out.
“Derm”? There’s no such word. When?
Come Monday.
The man just died and already you’re making jokes? You are going to hell.
I slapped my forehead. Oh, man. I wasn’t even thinking of that. I really was planning on calling to get an appointment on Monday.
Don’t put it off until Monday. Call today. Today.
Alright. I’ll call.
What’s got you worried?
A mole on my back. The one I can’t see. Can you look at it and tell me what you think?
Ew. It looks nasty. Give me your phone.
Why? Are you calling a wildlife removal service? It’s that big?
No. I’m taking a picture of it so you can see it for yourself.
I looked at the picture. I was horrified. Surely it’s a fatal form of skin cancer and I’m a dead man. (Irish fatalism on overdrive often powers my Oscar-winning fretting) I googled Dr. Google on the subject of melanoma and I discovered there are a number of characteristics to look for:
Asymmetrical growth to the size of a pencil eraser or bigger
Scalloped edges
Variations in pigmentation (Which sounded to me like a modern experimental Phillip Glass composition)
Bleeding (Only when I take an ice pick to it)
Itchiness
And a compulsion to discuss these characteristics in vivid detail at mealtime.
Seriously, if you are fretting over an errant freckle here’s a link to reliable information. Please wear sunscreen and please get regular checkups from a dermatologist: American Association of Dermatologists: Melanoma symptoms
A hypochondriac with a generous serving of ham, I was dramatically certain my fate was sealed.
I blame the vanity of youth for making me so desperate to get a tan I spent hours laying under the Tucson sun in the backyard of my childhood home on 27th street, slathered in oils, lotions and dyes, until I heard my skin sizzle.
The next day I would wake up, glowing lobster red, immoblized by fiery pain and then I would shed thin layers of my burned skin, like a rattlesnake skin, revealing no bronze boy underneath. My sun worshipping prayers went unanswered and I remained as pasty pale white as this page.
Fast forward half a century and I am, as the saying goes, happy in my wrinkled, weathered, speckled, freckled life-heckled skin.
The night before my dermatology appointment I was haunted by entertaining nightmares. An army of moles devouring me like ants, followed by a demonic mole exorcism complete with incantations, followed by a witch doctor pulling infinite tendrils out of a crater in my back. I woke up regretting every tasteless joke I ever made about melanoma, including a song I wrote years before inspired by the tune “Oklahoma”.
Ar-i-zona! Where the sun Comes blazing, bringing pain And the burnin' heat Can sure feel sweet 'Til the moles grow big And the skin docs dig And that tan you're hoping to attain? Mel-l-l-a-noma! Every day my pasty lamb and I Put on sunscreen And make the scene Making sure the SBF is high. I'm watching that mole on my nose. 'Cause we know skin cancer really blows! That's why we saaaaaay Ee-ee-yow! See your skin doc today! Check your moles for melanoma, Arizona, O.K.?
Dying from malignant skin cancer is a terrible way to die. Waiting in the dermatologist’s waiting room, I passed the time by guessing which fellow patients were doomed, fretting over whether to have mariachis or bagpipes at my funeral and drawing cartoon sketches of the dreaded mole. And then I heard my name called.
The physician’s assistant and I exchanged pleasantries. Certain my end was imminent I turned, lifted my shirt and assured the P.A. there was no point in hiding the truth from me. I could take it.
He looked at my mole through magnifying glasses. I braced myself for the grim diagnosis.
It’s benign.
What?
It’s a barnacle. In life we pick up barnacles.
What the-?
It’s a Seborrheic Keratosis.
It’s a Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious?
Seborrheic keratosis. It’s not melanoma.
Seborrheic keratosis? Sounds like a virus that kills carrots.
Want me to freeze it? It’ll blister and fall off in a couple of days.
Thank you!
Your are welcome, sir. Have a good day.
It would be a joyful drive home. Before starting my car I searched my Jimmy Buffet playlist, scanned past “Changes in Latitudes” and “Margaritaville” and settled on Mr. Buffet’s “Trip Around the Sun”. An old favorite that never got much airplay. And in light of his passing, after a meaninful rich life, somehow perfect. I turned the key, cranked up the AC and the music and thanked Jimmy for one more trip around the sun.
So glad you're not going to be joining the ever-growing 'All Star Band' in the hereafter yet! This whole getting older thing is pretty damn scary...
I feel your pain, and the fear! I had skin cancer, and was convinced even after the NP froze the spot. When I went back a year later, they wanted to freeze if again and I adamantly refused. Didn't work the first time; let's be more aggressive. They took a scraping. Called me a few days later... Squamous Cell Carcinoma. Sometimes being right is a real pain.