Skin Conditions

The kids and I have been accumulating various skin conditions so I finally decided to consult a dermatologist.  Now, I don't actually believe in dermatologists, and I shall point the finger in my mother's general direction on this one.  When I was a kid in rural Michigan, decent folks had a family doctor who did everything - the rash, the cough, the straw-in-the-eye injury, the annual lady-bits exam, broken toes, I cut-my-fingertip-off-again stitches, etc.  Only uppity folks went to specialists like pediatricians or ob/gyns. And only the rich, spoiled kids went to dermatologists for acne - except for that one poor kid who had mortal acne that reminded one that of hellfire.   We didn't go to the doctor much unless our situation involved significant screaming or unstoppable blood flow.  Zits involved neither, so tubes of Clearasil were good enough for us.

But I've learned a few things over the years.  Zits run in our family like stripes on zebras.  I shall never forget my very first one, thanks to a 5th grade social studies teacher who had long since forgotten what it was like to be a shy 11-year-old.   "Oh," she said to the entire class, "It looks like Sherri has her first pimple!"  (It's possible that my memory has magnified this incident, but when I need a good German swear, her last name comes all-too-quickly to mind.)  I still get the occasional pimple, even after 35+ years of skin despair.  Nick's family's puberty-skin was not much better.  So when David and Elisabeth both decided to join the puberty club this year, I was ready to swoop into action on behalf of their faces.

To be fair, I didn't actually swoop until we had other complaints to add to the Burgeoning Acne list. David had a seriously persistent wart on his knee (he does not shirk from OTC treatments or self-inflicted scissors action), Elisabeth had some itchy bumps, and I had some creeping growth on my eyelids that started distracting me from my horror show of a mid-life abdomen.  It was time to find a specialist.


After consulting various astrological planets and tea leaves for an auspicious moment (can you tell the Korean culture is rubbing off on me?), I finally found a time when the recommended clinic was open (thank you, OICA office!), I wasn't in class, the kids wouldn't miss too much school, and Nick's English-speaking TA (Sara) could join us for translation assistance.  I (still not having a GPS or smartphone or a Pohang road atlas because printed maps are not for sale here) studied the city maps on Google beforehand and knew which landmarks had to be passed to arrive at said office before closing time (remember - appointments not needed here): Yeongdeok bus station, Hwanho park, Bukbu beach, Jukdo market, 2nd bridge over river, and take a right to find a brick building with a small green tree on the door).  Let's just say that we did great until the "take a right" led us to a million brick buildings covered in signs and labels, but Sara's phone maps provided wonderful assistance and got us there.

Beautiful Skin Care (NE corner of o-goeri, if local folks are wondering), on the 2nd floor, was decorated in typical Korean waiting-room style (plushy couches, glass display cases, giant long reception desk) and the four women at the desk were also decorated in typical Korean medical-waiting-room style: mostly unflattering uniforms that took last place in a "Make-a-1980s-Flight-Attendant-Uniform-Look-Cute-Today Design Challenge." After selecting the least intimidating woman (I'm sure that one or more of the many signs indicated which person I was supposed to approach, but hey - I'm a way-gook and get away with a whole lot here), I handed over our alien registration cards.  One of the pitfalls of bringing along a translator is that no one even tries to talk to you.  So, Sara was asked to write out our names in Korean on a tiny scrap of paper. And then, as usual, I needed to provide my "hahn-deh po-neh" (mobile phone number) and, as usual, I gave them Nick's number as I STILL don't have a phone after living here nigh unto 16 months.  (And sensitive readers might correctly detect a tiny twinge of irritation.) The four of us crowded onto a couch, sneaking peeks at the other women waiting, one of whom was sneaking pictures of us on her "hahn-deh po-neh."  My children, characteristically American in their boundless energy and heedless of Korean public decorum, commenced to wiggling and teasing and making me terrifically benauwt (a great Dutch word for "a feeling of oppressive closeness that could result in some ugly butt-kicking"). Sara, already worth her weight in won, started taking group selfies on her phone to distract the kids so I could breathe.

Isn't Sara lovely?  I don't know why David was making that horrible face.
No wonder the other patients were sneaking pictures of us. 

Finally, we got to see the doctor in his cozy little office (not an exam room - no gowns, gloves, crinkly white paper or stainless steel).  The doctor (I don't know his name - I can't read Korean smock embroidery font yet) was in his 30s (?) and spoke surprisingly good English, making Sara momentarily purposeless.  The doctor looked first at David's giant knee wart, not seeming shocked or upset by its size or David's attempts to obliterate it (I gave myself points for bringing the OTC drops to show the doctor).  He recommended a stronger, prescription solution before moving to cryo-therapy (freezing).  Then he looked at David and Elisabeth's respective faces and recommended a few options for acne: (a) cleanser and medicated cream twice a day at home and some antibiotics; (b) a chemical peel (does it seem strange to you that he used his laser pointer to indicate the chemical peel treatment room on the closed circuit tv hanging over his office door?  As if that bit of visual info would affect our decision. "Oh - that decor is horrible!  We'd never stoop to a peel in that tacky room!"); and/or (c) having one of his staff ladies pop each pimple every week (a painful process at just $50 per kid per session).  It was hard enough for me to consult a specialist for zits, let alone pay a stranger to have someone else pop the kids' zits or wash their little faces in acid.  Home treatment option wins.

Then it was my turn.  About a year ago, I noticed an odd yellow spot above my left eye that has slowly gotten bigger; three months ago, one started growing above my right eye.  I had no idea if this was a dermatology issue or not, but what the heck, here we were.

Happily, Doctor Dermo knew immediately what it was, and again whipped out his laser pointer to indicate on a leaning-against-the-wall diagram of the skin's many layers and parts.  Apparently, normal clumps of lipids (fat) well beneath the skin can creep up to the surface and form these common benign tumors.  He looked up the condition in a big dusty Book of Weird Skin Stuff (resting right next to a Bible on his shelf).  After flipping through the index, he found a picture that looked just like my lipidy bumps, called xanthelasma palpebrarum (see here for more info). The good doctor considered doing laser surgery, poked at my eyelids some more, and then concluded that these were too big; plastic surgery would have better results.

So, ok, what I have looks weird, sounds exotic and scary, and needs a skilled scalpel.  Do you know how many plastic surgeons there are in Korea?  A LOT.  Like freckles on an Irish kid.  So I asked Ye Good Doctor who he would recommend for plastic surgery.  He playfully (!) pointed out his window: you could go there or there or there or (he pointed to the ceiling) to him.  What--upstairs?  Yes - he would be good.

Well, ok then.  Back to the waiting room, where an "operator" (the doctor's term for the ladies) took us to a virtual closet with stools and a bright red plastic tabletop to explain, in very rapid Korean, how the kids needed to care for their skin twice a day.  First a cleanser, then a light lotion, then the anti-acne medicine we'd get downstairs at the "medicine store," then a heavier moisturizer, and sunscreen in the mornings.  Sunscreen?  Ah, yes.  The Korean terror of freckles.  (Sara later mentioned that she had had laser treatments for some facial freckles just a few months ago. )

Ok, off to pay the be-uniformed ladies at the desk and collect our prescription (in unreadable Korean handwriting) and get a parking validation and pay for today's services.  I held my breath waiting for Sara to translate the charge: 3 of us seeing a dermatologist was not covered under the national health plan and I had never been to a derma...$13. Yup.  Korea is good.

No time like the present to visit the plastic surgeon.  Upstairs we trooped, with me threatening the kids' well-being if they continued being so touchy/feely/wiggly/noisy/weird.  Again with the alien registration card, translation of my name, mobile phone number, and waiting on (jarringly green velour) cushy couches.  After about 10 minutes of watching the large screen TV demonstrate bloodless, animated abdominal liposuctions, buttocks implants, calf reductions, and breast enhancements, Sara and I were waved back to the consultation room.  Apparently the desk ajummas didn't want the kids to feel neglected, so they ushered them in a few minutes later.  Into the crowded office with the doctor, me, and Sara.

This doctor was maybe in his 40s and spoke no English.  He, too, examined my eyelids at a personal distance normally reserved for my husband. To reduce the intimate closeness, I naturally closed my eyes, but he wanted them open. Yeah, that's awkward. He handed me a hand mirror and he took some tweezers to lightly pinch and pull at my bumps while talking to poor Sara who seemed torn between amusement and distress. Dr. Hong (I couldn't read his embroidery either, but I took his business card from the reception desk) explained and sketched how he could approach this surgery a few different ways and how the scars might look.  It finally occurred to me that he was giving me a choice, depending on my eyelid scarring hysteria level.  Um, I don't actually care much about whether the scar is more horizontal or vertical or whether it will change the line of my double-crease (only in Asia do you hear much about double creases or "crease surgery."  Have I mentioned seeing eyelid glue at the store for folks who aren't up for the surgery? Here's how to use it ).  So I picked the one-shot deal rather than the 2-3 session option.

This surgery in the US starts at around $700 per eyelid.  At Hong's office the total cost for both eyes was $400 with a debit/credit card or $300 in cash.  Un. Be. Liev. Able. And for $10 toward that cost today, I could make a "reservation" for the surgery early next week.  What a wonderful world this is.

We then went to the drug store, which is on the first floor (is that a handy Korean practice or what)? While waiting in the tiny space for the kids' prescriptions to be filled, Elisabeth's curious eyes roved about and stopped suddenly.  "Mama," she asked, "what are cherry-flavored--" and I emphatically shushed her as I read the packaging she indicated.  This was no place to have The Birth Control Talk. She got the message, but she still did not stop talking, apparently not aware or not caring about all the other people in the tiny shop who might know English.  "Oh no... is this about sex?"  Ah, yes, my dear.  "Ewww!  But...why would they be flavored...?"  Nope.  Even with my loose filter, this conversation was not happening with a 12-year-old girl in a very full Korean drugstore.  If ever. Sara appeared to be deeply amused.