Wednesday, April 28, 2010

How Porn Saved My Life

(Ed. note: The following is a true story. It's a brief departure from our normal writing on Roundtable Pictures, but we thought this was worth sharing. LT)

By Lars Trodson

This is not an allegorical tale, nor is it a cautionary tale. It’s straightforward, simple. Everything about it is inappropriate except its conclusion.

Sometime early in 1998, I was scratching and picking at what I thought was a pimple on my back. It was exquisitely placed, in that I could not see it no matter how I contorted myself in the mirror. I wondered slightly as to why it didn’t dry up and go away, like a normal pimple, but I was also a first-class denier. The itchy bump on my back couldn’t be anything serious. Besides, I had never heard of melanoma.

The symptoms could not have been any clearer, and I took great pains to ignore them. When I got out of the shower I was adept at having the towel gently miss the small area where the pimple was because the sight of blood on the nap unnerved me. So I never agitated the bump and I didn’t see the blood. And if I didn't see any blood, well, there was nothing wrong. See how that works?


One day, in an extreme act of gymnastics, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the thing in the mirror. It was no pimple. It was black and ugly. What the hell was that? But still, even with all the symptoms that something was radically wrong, I managed never to do anything about it.

I was well on my way to dying one day when I stopped by the pub I was managing (mismanaging) in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. It was a lovely summer day, and I walked in through the back to stop by and see the boys in the kitchen. When I walked into the small galley I saw that the fellas had illegally spliced into some cable porn, which they were watching while they prepared the lettuce and the condiments for the upcoming lunch.

We talked and watched for a little while until, at one point, a young woman came writhing onto the screen. Despite her many attractions, even I noticed the enormous moles that dotted her torso.

“She better watch out for the melanoma!” the cook suddenly shouted.

“What?” I said, suddenly very alert and very alarmed.

“Oh, that’ll kill you,” he said matter of factly. I got a brief tutorial on melanoma -- moles that go very bad! -- and left.

I felt like I was walking through mud. I was literally weighted down with fear; there was no doubt in my mind I had just been accurately diagnosed.

It’ll kill you!

That day I went home and asked my wife to call a dermatologist. I couldn’t even stand up straight. A month later, in his office, I lifted my shirt to show him the mole and the first thing I heard the doctor say was, “Bleccch.” Or something like that. Not encouraging. He told me to lie on my stomach and he soon was taking pictures. Not good.

After the exam -- this was a Friday afternoon -- he asked me if I knew a good surgeon. I almost laughed when I said, “Surgeon? I never even go to the doctor!” He was not inclined to tell me what it was, but I said, “Is it melanoma?” He said he thought it probably was.

I took a deep breath, and asked, “Am I dying?”

He put down his pen and lifted both his hands, gesturing towards the complexity of such a question, and said, “We’re all dying.” Now that was a stupid response.

Only I didn't die. I had a few surgeries and some other treatments and there hasn't been anything else since. I was extremely lucky. So there is some porn actress out there who I kind of have to thank, and to give my regards to the boys in the kitchen, and to continue to wonder how life can indeed be strange.