Dear Candace,
For the past week I’ve been afflicted by, as I call it, a body rash. I won’t go into detail on this public forum, but suffice it to say that large portions of my epidermis have been covered in a blotchy, slightly bumpy, incredibly annoying, very ridiculous rash.
Before I get yelled at to go to the doctor, allow me to explain that I don’t have any other symptoms which would warrant an immediate visit to the urgent care, and I’ve been conferring with my doctor (who is, of course, on spring break) and getting advice from nurse friends who have some insight to give me.
As it turns out, rashes are a dark and mysterious, often unexplainable entity. I don’t have hives, shingles, or poison ivy (thanks, nurse friends). According to Google, I have no less than 50 diseases. Feeling in the mood to be terrified? Here, just search “rashes and their causes” on Google images. You’re welcome. Sweet dreams.
Benadryl and creams of all sorts have been helping me cope. Thankfully, a week in and I’m almost over it, I think. Could it be viral, or a reaction to something I was newly prescribed? Yes. There’s also a high chance I’ve been experimented on by aliens. Turns out they don’t want me.
You can’t ignore a rash like this. Its become a part of me, of my identity. “Hi, my name is Rachel and I have a Rash.” At a department store recently, while getting fitted and surveyed for proper formal attire, I blurted out my rash story in an apology voice. The lady with the measuring tape just grunted. To my relief, it didn’t seem to bother her. As I looked at myself in the mirror, wearing the dress I’ll probably have on at my sister’s wedding next week, a commentary ran through my mind:
“This is our sister Rash Rachel, featuring a neck rash of epic proportions vying with her necklace for the biggest statement.”
“What was she like before the rash? We can’t remember, but we think her skin was very white.”
I took an oatmeal bath during the peak of my rash season, since Google and everybody else recommended it for its “skin-soothing properties.” The oats were in a fine mesh bag so they didn’t make a mess in the tub; the water turned a resulting milky oat color. I couldn’t tell any difference in my skin afterwards, though squeezing oat slime out of the bag was kind of fun, plus once I put coconut oil in my hair I smelled like granola.
I ran across this funny cartoon during all my investigations-
Doctor, to his over-large patient: “It’s not a rash, it’s moss. You need to start being more active than a tree.”
That’s the more likely explanation in my case. Maybe I’ll walk today.
Wishing for clear skies and clear skin,
Rachel
Letter 31 {A Return}
Photo by Andrea Tummons on Unsplash
