I Love Latin

Don'cha just love Latin? Doctors, scientists and priests often use it to make the mundane sound high falutin'.

For example, doctors from the Dermatology Grand Rounds have concluded that I may have cutis laxa, which is Latin for loose (or lax) skin. Before you say, "DUH," keep in mind that this is an actual medical condition. Emedicine.com describes cutis laxa as a "rare, inherited or acquired [mine is acquired] connective tissue disorder in which the skin becomes inelastic and hangs loosely in folds. . . . It may be preceded by an inflammatory rash." It certainly sounds and looks like me.

I'll visit my dermatologist again next week for another biopsy that will measure the amount of elastin in my skin.

My top three questions are:

• How did I get this? (Answer: unknown)

• What, if anything, can we do to stop the spread?

• What can we do to cosmetically improve the look of the loose skin?

I asked my USC liaison resident if any of the other doctors thought that my condition was related to natural aging, loss of weight or loss of muscle tone. "Oh, no," she said. "The doctors were very impressed with your case. Everyone was in agreement that your skin is abnormal."

I don't know why that makes me happy to hear. I guess, in addition to being validated, I'm glad that none of the pros think that my skin is just naturally old and flabby.

I didn't mention it to my USC resident, but I suspect that I also have at least two other disorders: gluteus laxa (saggy butt) and mammo laxa.

Show Me Some Skin

Last night, nearly 20 dermatologists filed in one or two at a time to view the "elephant woman" at the USC Keck School of Medicine Dermatology Grand Rounds.

They tried not to make me feel self conscious. "Interesting" was the favorite adjective, but "dramatic" and "significant" were also used to describe my slack skin. At least noone gushed, "GROSS" or "EWWW." One doctor in private practice developed an interesting theory (or was it a dramatic theory) about the destruction of white cells and loss of elastin and collagen.

I was spared the indignity of a hospital gown, so my choice of civilian clothing was very important. I wore a knee-length skirt, a spaghetti-strap top and a modest tailored jacket. When a doctor entered the room, I peeled off my jacket and showed off the skin around my arm pits. When they asked me to show them my torso, I shyly lifted up my tank top. Finally, when they reqested a peek at my gams, I slowly raised my skirt to reveal the mottled skin at the top of my inner thighs. (I had the foresight to wear boy-cut underwear.)

I haven't shown so much skin to so many people since. . . . Well, come to think of it, I've NEVER shown so much skin so freely to so many people.

One observant doctor was concerned about a series of one-inch slashes on my back. I asked him if they looked like cat scratches. "Yes," he said excitedly. "They look just like cat scratches." "Oh. Those are cat scratches. I have a cat who likes to piggy back on my shoulder and sometimes he digs his claws in," I explained.

I wasn't allowed to attend the session where the doctors discussed my case. Maybe that's because they get to let down their guards and say "GROSS" and "EWWW" among colleagues.