Ouch! to the 15th Power

Childhood summers playing on the beach at Scotchman's Cove with only an occasional slathering of Sea & Ski on my pale Irish skin have left me with a lifetime of dermatological "freezings." By freezing, I mean burns - big, blistering burns on my face, hands, chest and back to rid me of the sun damage festering its way toward skin cancer.
As a veteran of the burn wars, I know to make my appointment at the end of the summer, when all the crispy little spots who have been creeping epidermally toward the surface since childhood, have spawned anew. I knew this one would be bad - there was a place on my forehead that I thought might even need a scalpel. I'm good at self diagnosis; a cream goes on my face every day that sizzles my freckles like little round Canadian bacons.
Even still, this was a bad one. Fifteen times, Dr. Whoever Drove Out From Portland pointed his little spigot at me and held; "one, two, three (Jesus!), four, and okay. I think we got that one."
Once, I said, my voice shaking with pain, "Let's take a little break, shall we?"
During the conversation that followed (he talking and me, not screaming), he said, "Well, yes, people are always commenting to me how I have this tan, but you know, I'm never in the sun. This is what happens walking to the car at 6 PM. I tan so quickly."
As I glared at him with my watering eyes, I said, "How nice for you."
He then said, "Yes, well, I got this skin, but I also got osteoarthritis. Had to replace both knees, a hip and I've had two back surgeries. Look at my hands."
As I glanced down at his brown hands, I noticed his knuckles were enlarged, and his fingers, crooked.
"Have trouble holding this sometimes," he continued, aiming the cooking device at a particularly sensitive part of my chest.
That he is so arthitic precludes the necessity of me coming home and placing a curse on him. I shouldn't do curses with burns on my body.
I might accidentally overdo it.