I Hate Everyone, Except You(42)
“Yes, I see you wrote that on your form. Where is this rash?”
I had rehearsed what I was going to say, not everything, just the part about not using the word “dick” while talking to a doctor. Don’t say dick. Don’t say dick. “Penis. It’s on my penis.”
He turned and began to put on a pair of latex gloves. Maybe it was just my imagination, but I’m pretty sure I heard him exhale while his back was turned, the kind of exhale that is usually accompanied by an eye roll. “I’ll need you to drop your pants and underwear, please, and sit on the edge of the table.” I did as requested, and as luck would have it, this guy had the air-conditioning in his exam room set to absolute zero. I tried thinking dirty thoughts to perk things up, but there wasn’t enough time for any major change. It was all happening so fast.
“Let’s see what’s up with this little guy.” He turned my penis between his thumb and forefinger. (More people than usual were doing that lately.) I turned to face the wall only to be confronted by a poster I remembered from the last time I went to the dermatologist, the one detailing the different types of skin cancer.
I blurted: “Do I have penis cancer?”
“No, you do not have penile cancer, but this is very interesting. It looks like something called a fixed drug reaction. It’s pretty rare.” His eyes met mine. “Have you been on antibiotics lately?”
“No. No I haven’t.” And then it hit me. “Oh, wait. I took some Cipro.”
“Why were you on Cipro?” he asked.
“My mother gave them to me during that anthrax scare.”
In late October 2001, a Bronx woman died of inhaled anthrax, which she contracted while at work in the Manhattan Eye, Ear, and Throat Hospital, just three blocks away from my apartment. It was a sad and scary time to live in New York, the Twin Towers having been attacked the previous month. People were waiting for the next terrorist attack. They were afraid to open their mail, and the news media got everyone riled up about the availability of Cipro, the antibiotic used to fight anthrax infection. “Drug manufacturers can’t make enough Cipro!” they screamed. “We’re all gonna die! Only Cipro can save us!” It was the typical bullshit, but it was difficult not to get at least a little caught up in it.
Somehow, amid the hysteria and stockpiling, Terri managed to get her hands on a case of Cipro. How she did it, I have no idea. My parents are crazy—and a little scary—like that. If my sisters or I need something really important, it shows up and nobody asks questions.
“That was over a year ago. Is your mother a doctor?”
“No. I was in Thailand and I was afraid of getting food poisoning.”
I don’t know where I got the idea to use Cipro as a prophylaxis against traveler’s diarrhea, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. The bottle of Cipro Terri had sent me after the anthrax scare sat in my medicine cabinet for more than a year, never opened, but I took it to Asia, just in case I needed a powerful antibiotic. Before Rick and I left on our vacation, my friend Patty got me all worked up about crazy Asian stomach bugs. She told me that during her trip to Thailand, she had to literally jump off a boat in the middle of the ocean to poo in the water (which is literally my worst nightmare!) because she had eaten some bad shrimp. So when I noticed a dead dog floating down the river not five feet away from me in Bangkok—while I was eating fried shrimp from a food cart, no less—I immediately popped a couple of football-size pills and said little prayer to the travel gods that the contents of my large intestine not liquefy.
Evidently, the travel gods have a wicked sense of humor.
The dermatologist shook his head, picked up his pen, and began to write in my file while lecturing me. “Mr. Kelly, you should never take any medicine that was not prescribed to you by a physician for a specific purpose.” I was actually being scolded while my pants and underwear were bunched around my ankles. I apologized, and he explained to me that I’m allergic to a family of antibiotics called quinolones and should I ingest them ever again I could expect another spot in the same place. This “reaction” would eventually disappear on its own. But before that happened, he said, “I’d like to show your penis to my students.” He taught dermatology to medical interns.
“Look,” I said, “there is absolutely no way I’m showing my dick—er, penis—to a bunch of doctor wannabes. I’m on television!” Then I had to explain that I was hosting a show on TLC and the last thing I needed was someone posting a picture of my spotted dick on the Internet.
“Well, I could take a picture,” he suggested, “and nobody would know it was you. I contribute to several dermatology journals and I’m writing a textbook.”
My penis in a medical textbook? With a spot on it?
“Oh, hell no!” I could not get my pants on fast enough. “I appreciate your time, but I have to go now.” The last thing I remember is leaving a ten-dollar co-pay on the counter and bolting out his office door.
As for my penis, it soon returned to normal, and by “normal” I mean perfect. And that spot, I remember it fondly. Maybe I’m even a little proud of it. I mean, it’s not every penis that can be a textbook model. Twice.
STOCKHOLM SYNDROME
For a brief period in 2015, I toyed with the idea of cashing in my chips and moving to Sweden, mostly because I had started to develop disturbing visions and convinced myself I could escape them by relocating to Scandinavia. Damon agreed to come along for the ride; he had been wanting to try authentic Swedish meatballs anyway.