The Stigma of Stigmata
(A Theatrical Monologue)
By Stephen A. Schrum
I noticed it first in my pool, as I sat relaxing and baking in one of those floating chairs. I put my mint julep glass in the cup holder and saw blood mixed with the condensation.
I dipped my hand in the pool water to rinse it off, and felt a sting from the chlorine. Bringing my hand close to my eyes I could see the rough, red and cracked surface of my palm. As I watched, wondering about the source of the blood, I could see tiny, minute droplets squeezing through my pores. I thought to myself, I'd better take care of this as soon as possible.
The next day I visited my dermatologist. He turned my hand over and over with his latex gloves. With a series of Q-Tips he swabbed at the blood, which had now also started appearing on the back of my hand, to take samples.
Finally, after rotating my hand about a dozen times-I thought he was trying to unscrew it-he said, "I haven't seen this condition before personally." I asked, "Well, that is it?" "There's only one medical condition I know of that explains this." He paused, I guess afraid to make a concrete diagnosis I could sue him for.
"It appears to be stigmata."
"That's ridiculous," I said. "I'm not religious" He seemed about to respond, but I cut him off by saying, "It has to be something else."
"Well, it usually happens on both hands." I started to make a "stop it" gesture with my left hand, but froze. I stared at him from under my brow; I had seen the palm of my left hand starting to redden earlier that morning. He nodded; he saw it too.
"Look, doesn't stigmata usually happen to saints and mystics? I'm a Hollywood agent, for chrissake, and I've done some amazing deals, but I wouldn't call myself the second coming. Besides, I don't have time for stigmata, or whatever this is. In my business I shake a lot of hands. What am I supposed to do? I can't be wiping blood off my hand every time I meet someone. I can't use gauze strips or wear gloves-it's too impersonal. And it looks bad. If I take a client to lunch in a restaurant, is the server going to have to wipe the blood off my American Express card before he swipes it in the machine?"
The dermatologist just stared at me. Apparently he didn't see the seriousness of this. "Hey, can't you recommend a good plastic surgeon? You must know tons in Beverly Hills. Just find someone to close me up, do some reconstructive on it. It'll be as good as new. Get rid of some of these liver spots while we're at it."
"Some would take stigmata as a sign to reevaluate their lives," he said.
"I'll tell you what I'm reevaluating," I told him. "I'm reevaluating you as my dermatologist. I think I need a second opinion."
"Suit yourself," he said. "But you'll probably get blood on it when you get dressed."
Very funny. Everybody in my life does stand-up. So I left. Went to a series of other specialists. They either had no idea what it was, or gave me the same religious explanation. So before I went to any priests or anything, I decided to live with it. In fact, it comes in, uhh, "handy," if you know what I mean. There I am trying to seal a deal, and I think I'm getting screwed. And I just say, "Hey, are you trying to bleed me here?" and hold my hands up as if they have a gun on me. Then some blood trickles down on to my cuff, and the guy I'm negotiating with goes dead white. I'm spending a fortune on new shirts, but last year, with this trick, I increased my profits 33%. You know what they say: when life gives you lemons! [Smiles and gives a thumbs-up gesture but his fingers hit the stigmata.] Ow. [Readjusts his hand and smiles again.]
