The Year 2016
Alle:
I entered the end of my short-lived teaching career in Changsha, Hunan, China. After enduring the week's worth of autumn weather, the brutal, pneumonia-inducing winter, and the drenchings of spring, my body needed to sweat out a little bit of acid rain in the summer's heat.
That part escaped my knowledge of China - the pollution. A lot of people imagine something like this:
That smog spreads across the country as the pollution blankets the skies down south. Without fair warning, I found myself in the valley of humidity, pollution, and smog.
It did not disappear with the seasons; hence that acid rain.
Eczema began to scrawl its way across my body at a young age. The cold weather's skin problems continued through the summers of my middle school years. No longer cracked and raw due to snow or wind, my skin turned shades of red throughout the seasons. Sometimes, I even lost the pigmentation, my skin turning a whiter shade than any other part of me. I suppose that's what scarring does to you after so long.
Eczema and I grew up together. When I stood in front of my classroom of 60 students in a room without air conditioning in the Changsha heat, I found myself scratching uncontrollably - too much irritation from the chalk dust and the surrounding pollution. I felt no different than any time before, but my students stared in shock and horror.
"Miss Alle, have you been crying?"
"What's wrong with your face, Miss Alle?"
"Teacher - are you okay? Your face and arms are so red."
Nothing could manage to mask the fact that my eczema flared to such a degree that it nearly kept my eyes closed. Puffy and painful, I managed to squint beyond the front rows of the classroom to keep my students in check. Unfortunately, that was the only thing I could keep in check that entire year.
I had to keep my own mind in check.
It's all the pollution's fault. It's all the pollution's fault.
My skin hated me, and everyone knew it. I appeared to be diseased; the eczema damaged my appearance and my ability to conform and enjoy my new, international environment.
Claire:
This was the third summer in a row people on public transit visibly moved away from me when I stood near them. This was the second summer I wore pants, feeling uncomfortably hot on 90 degree days in an attempt to hide my legs from the world. The pants made my eczema outbreak worse, but at least fewer people moved - until it crept up to my face.
People will think you are contagious.
“Wow, it’s really everywhere. It looks like it hurts. Does that hurt? That must be really isolating and hard to talk to people,” said a previous coworker, an adult with a child of their own.
Some people are just cruel.
I was four years old when eczema began to cover my body from head to toe in the summertime. My mother thought I had the chicken pox, but I didn’t -- just a full blown eczema outbreak.
When you’re a kid, you don’t realize that people shirk you in public because of your oozing or dry or bright red skin. I just hurt and itched a lot until it passed.
You’ll yearn for a time you didn’t think of it as an embarrassment.
That summer my dermatologist and I exchanged daily updates, beginning our close relationship. Daily updates became necessary when I was on high doses of prednisone and test patches of lotions and ointments. All of the old standbys were failing, and I was allergic to an antibiotic meant to take care of the staph on my skin. That triggered a drug rash, which preceded a second, larger outbreak.
I’ve been lucky to have the same dermatologist since that “chicken pox” outbreak. With our long history together, she recently looked back at her notes and asked if I remembered the outbreak before senior prom and all the things we tried to clear my legs so I could wear my short dress.
Your derm is your ally - if you find a good one.
It’s winter now, and my rashes have retreated to the crevices of my hands -- a less noticeable place. My dermatologist and I laugh about the fact that we’re running out of options to try, and this makes my eczema feel less real.
Winter time means most people have dandruff, so the spots on my head seem more normal and garner fewer stares as my skin is almost always on the shoulders of my all black clothes.
This outbreak will pass.
For myself and for anyone else suffering from eczema, when the eczema consumes your body, face, and hands, remember this one thing:
somebody out there loves you.
And I don't mean "somebody loves you anyway" or "loves you in spite of this."
Most won't notice how eczema is holding your self-worth hostage. You need somebody out there who looks past the splotches, the redness, the pain and sees your body, your hands, your face.
There is somebody, many somebodies, who see your face - even when you can’t yourself.
So, no. I won’t point your eczema out in front of anyone. I won’t give you unsolicited names of lotions, steroids, or pills. I will be there for you in solidarity and in empathy. I will see your face.
