If You Don't Have Your Health...

Well then, you have nothing. They are so right, and heaven help you when you start dealing with the medical community. My head, of late, spins like a child's toy. It all started back in November (going on 7 months now) when I was bitten by a mosquito.

For most folks, a mosquito bite is no biggie. But for me, it's time to sound the battle horns and wage war on those little bloodsuckers. I puff up like a tick at a buffet, scratching like I'm auditioning for a flea commercial. If I get more than two bites, my eyes start itching, my nose turns into a leaky faucet, and I feel like I've been run over by a truck. My immune system likes to throw a party for every little thing, and it’s been doing this since forever. So I had this mosquito bite on my left elbow. I scratched, it swelled, and all was normal for me just cruising along. I realized at the beginning of December that I still had the bite, it still itched, it was still swollen, and the skin around it had become scaly. Great, just great.

For most people, this wouldn't be a dramatic moment in time for them, but for me, it is. I suffered from hives all over my body every single day for about 2-3 years.  I became a professional doctor-hopper, visiting everyone from acupuncturists to holistic gurus, and even those online detox wizards who promise the moon and stars. Yet, the itch persisted like a clingy ex. My windowsill looked like a pharmacy explosion, packed with prescriptions and over-the-counter potions that barely made a dent. I became a master of the scratch-and-tolerate game during my 8-hour workdays. Once home, I'd dive into a scalding shower like it was a spa day, because for a glorious 45 minutes, the itch would take a coffee break. Anyone who's tangoed with poison ivy knows the sweet, sweet relief of hot water therapy!

I slapped some hydrocortisone cream on my skin and carried on with my day. But within two weeks, I had welts all over my arms and legs. The itch was crazy intense. My husband thinks I focus on it too much, but it's almost impossible to ignore when your body is itching, burning, and swelling like that. I even dreamed about hives. But this was different. Hives usually come and go—you get a big, angry bump, and then 30 minutes later it’s gone, only to show up somewhere else. All that’s left are the scratch marks. I looked like I'd been in a fight with a lion that seriously needed a mani/pedi. And that original patch that started it all? Still there and still looking nasty.

In my hour of desperation, I did what any sensible, panic-stricken person would do—I turned to the all-knowing internet. Reddit and I? We're basically besties now. I've scrolled through more rash photos than a dermatologist on caffeine. Suddenly, my itchy predicament didn't feel so lonely. I became a human coconut-shea butter smoothie, slathering myself in hopes of relief. Eventually, I decided it was time to see a doctor. Despite their history of underwhelming performances, I cling to the hope that one of them might finally be my medical miracle. I'm like a kid who still believes in Santa, except my Santa wears a stethoscope and occasionally forgets where he parked his sleigh.

I called my primary doctor's office. It is part of a managed care conglomerate in that they have one of everything and are pretty much it for the woods. I explained that I needed a dermatologist because I have this rash. Nope, only the Nurse Practitioner can make that assessment. I can start with an appointment with him. I said, just for shits and giggles, what's the wait time to see Dermatology? 5-6 months.

I dove headfirst into the world of online medical care when I heard that timeline. First up, a charming dermatologist declared my rash to be 'dermatitis'—fancy talk for "mystery skin thing"—and prescribed a magic cream. Spoiler alert: my rash threw a party instead of disappearing. Next, they handed me another cream and some ivermectin, just in case I had some uninvited scabies guests. Surprise! The rash decided to spread the love and branch out. Then came another cream and an antibiotic, because why not throw a bacteria treatment into the mix? Meanwhile, my rash itched like a bunch of fire ants were hosting a dance-off on my skin. Finally, they tossed me a new cream and gently suggested I might want to see a real-life doctor.

When I finally rolled into the nurse practitioner's office four months later, I looked like I'd been in a wrestling match with a porcupine. My back, thighs, arms, and torso were covered in welts. The itch was so intense I was doing gymnastic moves to scratch it. I knew I was turning my skin into a modern art masterpiece of scratches and blood, but I couldn't stop. The nurse practitioner took one look and said, "Fungus!" A week of oral meds later, I was feeling like a new person—until day four when my skin decided to rebel. Off to the allergist I went, as instructed.

Now, this allergist looked like she just graduated from high school, but everyone is starting to look young to me. I could have been her mom! She started by saying she wasn't the rash-allergy-testing type. I nearly burst into tears. Where was my medical miracle worker? She took one look at my skin, gasped, and snapped some photos to send to dermatology. She said they'd probably bump me to the front of the line for a biopsy once they saw the evidence. Meanwhile, I was practically begging for something to stop the itch, clawing at myself. Her advice? "Hang in there." Hang in there? I'd been living in pajama bottoms for a month because anything else felt like sandpaper. Hang in there? I was popping allergy pills like they were candy. Three days later, the dermatologist wanted a video chat. I told him to go scratch... literally!

It's now June, and this whole saga kicked off in November. I waddle over to another dermatologist, the one we usually see for our annual "let's make sure nothing's growing on you" check-up. She takes one look at my skin and lets out an "oh my god" that was probably heard in the next county. A biopsy is taken because, apparently, my skin is a rare, undiscovered species. It'll take two weeks for the results, which in medical time is like two years. Meanwhile, I'm practically on my knees, pleading for anything to stop the itchiness. The response? "Just hang in there for a few weeks, please." Sure, no problem—I'll just scratch myself into oblivion!

A chronic condition can be an insidious adversary, one that steadily wears down not only the body but also your spirit. Each day feels like a relentless battle against an unyielding foe, where the moments of relief are few and far between. There is barely a moment free from the constant presence of itch, soreness, and irritation that gnaws at my peace of mind. The discomfort becomes a persistent companion, shadowing every thought and action, making it difficult to engage fully with the world around me. In an effort to help, people often offer a plethora of advice, sometimes well-meaning but often misguided. Suggestions such as changing your shampoo, switching laundry detergents, practicing breathwork, eliminating gluten from your diet, or cutting dairy flood your ears. Each piece of advice, while intended to be supportive, can feel overwhelming, adding to the anxiety of an already complicated situation. The fear of making a wrong choice looms large, as each potential change carries the risk of triggering another wave of discomfort. At night, the simple act of turning over in bed becomes fraught with anxiety. The thought of changing sides is accompanied by the dread that it might awaken the itch that has been lying dormant, ready to erupt at the slightest provocation. This fear infiltrates my ability to relax and enjoy the comfort of our own bed, turning what should be a sanctuary into a source of stress. During conversations or while watching shows, my mind is often pulled away from the moment, fixated instead on the small spot of irritation that will start to itch. It becomes challenging to concentrate when the prospect of discomfort looms so large. The emotional toll of living with this has led to feelings of shame and embarrassment, particularly regarding my skin. It can feel like a betrayal, leaving you to grapple with a sense of unworthiness. The mirror reflects not just my physical appearance but also the internal struggle, and in those moments, I may not feel pretty or confident. The journey to self-acceptance becomes a winding road filled with obstacles, where each flare-up serves as a reminder of your ongoing battle.

In my never-ending quest for relief, unconventional methods come into play. I started taking bleach baths, a remedy I discovered through my internet friends who wear tin foil beanies, believing in the power of shared knowledge. Surprisingly, this practice has provided some relief, making the incessant itch more bearable, even if only temporarily. Yet, the fear of touch remains a significant hurdle. The prospect of a hug or a gentle cuddle is daunting; the intimacy of touch often leads to scratching, which only exacerbates the discomfort. Even something as simple as a shower feels like a million shards of glass cutting into my skin. The water, which is typically refreshing, instead becomes a source of pain, reminding me of my fragile state.

As I approach the two-week mark of the biopsy, the uncertainty of what lies ahead weighs heavily on my mind. I find myself more afraid of the vague possibilities of "could be a few things" than I am of hearing something definitively horrific. At least with a diagnosis, I could formulate a plan, seek treatment, and perhaps find a way to manage the condition rather than merely enduring it. Unfortunately, my experiences with medical personnel have often been disheartening. Many seem to lack the empathy and compassion that one would hope for during such a vulnerable time. The interactions have felt cold and clinical, leaving me hoping for a simple acknowledgment of my suffering. Sometimes, all it takes is a gentle hug—one that doesn't provoke the cycle of irritation—or a comforting phrase like, "I can see how horrible this is for you. I see you. We are in this together. You are not alone."

My husband says don't scratch. He tells me to write.....