A Childhood of Eczema and a Doctor I'll Never Forget

My entire life up until now has been both a waiting game and a science experiment. Just like the first few years of life in the 80s, I was once again the guinea pig.

The setting is Charlottesville, Virginia, 1982. I was just about two years old.
Days and nights of baby eczema, hives and scratching brought my mom, dad and I to my first allergist.

                                         

     

He recommended scratch tests for allergens, which was the gold standard for allergy diagnosis at the time. It really was a form of torture where a sanitized blade scraped the skin and the specific allergen in the form of a liquid was applied from vials. Because it was still an experimental testing process at that time and later found to be incredibly dangerous, I can't even find images to show you from Google.

I'm Back

If you told me I'd be back, I wouldn't have believed you.

I was done with allergies. By 'allergies' I mean the gamut of allergic diseases I had to live my life around. Food allergies, hay fever, eczema, contact dermatitis, oral allergy syndrome and cholinergic urticaria were words I never wanted to speak about again. They represented trauma, pain and suffering. They represented fear. I wanted to face the sun and forget about the things I carefully tailored my life around to be healthy. To be 'normal.' Or whatever my version of that might be. (Warning: Do not read the rest of the blog if you're eating lunch or easily squeamish.)

I wanted to enjoy the outdoors without thinking about the allergy index and whether it was safe or not. I wanted to be excited about social events involving food and actually eat something, for once. I wanted to feel the joy of communication without every interaction being tainted by my negative lens of obsessive allergy consciousness.