To My Dermatologist When I Was in High School

Some kids glide through high school with little more than the occasional pimple and a few awkward dates. Good for them. I’m quite sure that somewhere later in life, bad luck caught up to them, maybe in the form of a tantrum-throwing two year old or a partner who gives them the silent treatment.

But that was not me. Acne started in middle school and the top of my dresser started to become populated with various creams and ointments. I tried foamy face washes in big green bottles, more chemical and clinical than cosmetic. I would read every article in Teen magazine about how to treat acne: avoid chocolate, change the pillowcase, use special make-up and concealer. That’s when I knew they weren’t writing about my kind of acne. The only concealer that would work would be a full ski mask.

http://www.vintageadbrowser.com/beauty-and-hygiene-ads-1970s/5

 When the acne becomes like welts down my neck and across my shoulders, we go to the dermatologist. I remember the doctor’s hands on my face. I want to back away, but she is sympathetic, gentle. She tells me she has seen much worse and indeed, color “before” and “after” pictures on the examining room wall prove mine is not as bad as it gets.

I am embarrassed not just because of the acne, but that treating it makes me feel vain, superficial. I care about how I look when I want to be the kind of person that doesn’t care. I want to be the woman who doesn’t need or want to worry about how my face looks in order to be confident. But at 16, I’m not there yet. I want to wake up with smooth skin; I want to walk in the school doors and not worry if a big white zit has appeared on my cheek in the drive to school.

I agree to dry ice and light therapy. She puts on blue gloves and asks me to lie down. She sits at the table above my head and barely touching my skin, she rubs dry ice across my cheeks and nose. Over and over my forehead. I can feel her breath on my face, one hand she has placed under my neck. I think more than the ice, just her touch feels healing.

She hands me a pair of tiny goggles and turns on a purple light. She tells me she is literally burning away the acne. My skin will be sensitive when she’s done, but in a couple days, it will feel better.

I can’t imagine that in medical school, you dreamed you would spend your days rubbing ice over the faces of shy teenagers. You probably thought about the complexities of working with the largest organ of the body, the most vulnerable. You sit in class, the skeleton standing in the corner, the model heart blue and red on the table, and think what separates us, really, is so little, so thin. Just this skin. You can’t take your eyes off the person sitting next to you. His arm is so close, you can see each freckle. This is all there is.