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Blisters, Bruises, and Biopsies: The Rash That Took Over

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June 13th: When It All Started

On June 13th, I woke up with a whelped, raised rash. Some spots were blister-like. It started out small—on my right forearm, underneath my left breast, under my chin, and on the front of my right neck above my sternum. Over the weekend, it continued to spread up my forearm, neck, chest, and a new spot on the left side of my stomach.

I went to urgent care the Monday after Father’s Day. The doctor diagnosed me with contact dermatitis—even though I explained my environment hadn’t changed, I hadn’t been outside, and I hadn’t switched any laundry or body products. His response? “You’re not giving me nothing to work with.”

I sat there thinking: Dude, I’m literally giving you an elimination list.

He gave me a steroid shot since I can’t tolerate the oral form—it causes severe stomach issues. He also prescribed a topical cream. I had some on hand already and had started using it over the weekend. Instructions were to continue using it and return if there was no improvement in a few days.

By Wednesday, the rash had spread even more. It was now on my back and legs. I had also started developing headaches and fatigue. I went to a different urgent care—because no way was I going back to that first doctor. The new doctor told me to switch from the cream to a topical ointment and said she didn’t want to give me more steroids. She recommended I try to get in to see a dermatologist or allergist.

I’d already had allergy testing in the past—I knew this wasn’t allergies.

Thursday: It Got Worse

Thursday night, things took a turn. I had such a bad migraine that I was in bed, sick, crying, and shaking from full-body pain. My blood pressure hit 165/105. I was one breath away from a full-on mental breakdown.

By Friday morning, my rash had intensified. I went back to the first urgent care (against my better judgment), and of course, the same doctor was on duty. He looked at my rash and clearly had no idea what it was. He consulted another doctor, and together they guessed it could be a systemic fungal infection. He didn’t seem confident at all—but still prescribed an oral anti-fungal.

The Weekend Spiral

The weekend was rough. My symptoms worsened: intense headaches, burning skin, swelling where the rash was, elevated blood pressure, and crushing fatigue. I called six different dermatologists trying to get in. No one had appointments until August or September. One I’d seen before wasn’t available until January—and they said I had to be considered a new patient because it had been too long.

Even with a referral from urgent care and me nearly begging over the phone, no one would work me in. I couldn’t even get in to see a PCP until September.

ER Desperation

By Monday afternoon, I was desperate. I went to the ER, hoping for relief. My blood pressure was still high, and my heart was racing from the pain. I waited four and a half hours in the lobby, which I expected—rashes aren’t exactly considered a high priority.

Once I got back to a room, I waited another hour before a doctor came in. She looked me over and admitted she had no idea what it was. She brought in another doctor, who thought it might be an allergic reaction. They gave me another steroid injection and pain meds to take at night.

Thankfully, this sweet doctor also sent a referral to a dermatology clinic. They called me the next morning, and I was finally able to get in to see someone that Wednesday afternoon.

Finally, a Real Answer

The dermatologist took one look at my full-body rash and heard the progression story. He immediately ruled out both allergy and fungal infection. He took a biopsy from my right hip, one of the newer rash sites. He suspects it could be an autoimmune disorder affecting my blood vessels, and—just as a precaution—he’s also checking for skin cancer.

Some of the rash spots have bruised or turned into bruises on their own.

Now it’s a waiting game. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little scared. It’s terrifying not knowing what’s going on with your body.

At this point, the early rash areas have scarred. New ones are still forming, especially on my hands and sides. I’ve also developed skin discoloration that I hope isn’t permanent.

The Hardest Part

What’s most frustrating in all of this is how it feels like some healthcare professionals just don’t care. Like—“Oh, we’ll fit you in a few months from now.” By then, the rash could be gone—or worse, depending on the cause, it could have started affecting my organs. And honestly, it’s already doing more than just looking ugly.

It took two weeks for anyone to take my condition seriously. By the time I saw a dermatologist, it was day 12, and I was sick as a dog—physically drained and emotionally fried.

I’ve been talked down to by doctors who acted like I was an inconvenience. Maybe I didn’t make their job easy enough. Maybe I wasn’t worth their “precious time.”

I don’t know why some people even become doctors if they act like they couldn’t care less. I get that some patients show up for nothing. But when someone walks in with a clearly progressive, worsening condition, why not show some freaking compassion?

Alright, Internet People…

Rant and whine session: over.

Signed,
An exhausted, slightly frightened patient.

Renovations-R-Us: The never ending DIY

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In early May of this year, we moved into a new home—leaving behind our peaceful five-acre, 1970s ranch-style property for life in a nearby city subdivision. Essentially, we traded serenity and space for sidewalks, school zones, and a HOA. Our HOA seems decent so far—we’re just adjusting to having neighbors right next door instead of the acres of breathing room we were used to.

We had always dreamed of owning land. When we bought our last property in June 2022, it felt like we had finally made that dream a reality. The land was breathtaking—lush with towering trees, home to deer, and filled with the kind of stillness you can only get in the country. But the house? A different story.

We knew from the start it needed a full renovation. And we meant full: we stripped it down to the studs, tore out wood paneling, scraped popcorn ceilings, laid new flooring, painted everything, and replaced the AC unit. The only things we didn’t touch were the bathrooms and kitchen—mainly because those are usually the most expensive projects, and we were trying to recoup some costs before tackling them. Still, we did all the work ourselves and saved a significant amount of money. By the end of it, I felt like a renovation queen.

But just when we were settling into our hard-earned progress, a major freeze hit in January 2024. We did everything to insulate our outdoor faucets, but a pipe burst in our daughter’s closet anyway. The water poured in with such force that the only rooms spared were the kitchen and dining room on the far end of the house.

We filed an insurance claim and had to redo the new flooring, replace damaged walls, and repaint nearly everything. Thankfully, we were able to renovate both bathrooms with the help of the insurance payout. We brought in a friend to handle the bathroom tiling and remodel, but that turned out to be a huge mistake. In the end, we had to finish the job ourselves—and along the way, we learned more about plumbing than we ever wanted to know. Installing a shower for the first time was… an experience.

By this point, I was exhausted. It felt like we had spent nearly two straight years in renovation mode. The house started to feel more like a burden than a blessing. Our girls were tired of sharing a room. The constant projects were draining our time, energy, and finances. I began to resent the house and the toll it had taken on us.

So, in September 2024, after talking things over with our realtor, we decided to list the property. We hired someone to paint the exterior, I painted the kitchen myself, and we cleaned up the flowerbeds. I was done—mentally and emotionally.

We received an offer in March 2025. It felt like the light at the end of the tunnel. But then, the buyer backed out. We were already under contingency for the home we’re in now, and losing that deal was heartbreaking. Luckily, in early April, we got another offer, went under contract, and officially closed at the end of May.

We were out. Finally.

And yet, the chaos wasn’t quite over.

We quickly realized the previous owner of our new home had completely let the backyard go. The fence was falling apart, and the overgrowth—trees, brush, and even poison ivy—had taken over. The kids were thrilled to have their own rooms (no more fighting!), but all three needed patching and painting. There were knife holes in the walls. Yes—actual knife holes. What happened here? We’ll never know.

We hired a landscaper and fencing company to get the yard under control, since we simply didn’t have the time or energy to do it ourselves.

Then last week, we discovered the garbage disposal had been leaking—apparently for quite a while. The base cabinets were full of wood rot and mold. We had to cut and remove the granite island countertop (all 500 lbs of it), rip out the cabinets, treat the mold, and now we’re installing new cabinets, outlets, wiring, and a brand-new sink.

At this point, I feel like I could host my own HGTV show. We’ve lived through so much renovation drama, I could write several seasons’ worth of episodes. And while I’ve learned a ton along the way, I have officially reached my limit.

I am on strike.
No more demo days. No more paint rollers. No more tile saws or caulk guns. I’m done. Stick a fork in me.

#newhousenewproblems
#renovationqueenretired
#sendhelporwine

RIP

Parenting in the Wild: Where the Children Are Feral and the Snacks Are Essential

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Parenting teenagers and a pre-teen feels a lot like wandering through the wilderness—only instead of wild animals, you encounter savage one-liners and unexpected emotional ambushes. Let me explain: children are vicious. Hilarious? Yes. Heartwarming? Occasionally. But vicious all the same.

As a mom to two teenagers and one pre-teen, I’ve come to accept that I am not just raising kids—I’m surviving them. Let me share a few of my favorite (and mildly traumatic) encounters with my beloved tiny humans.

The Bike Ride Burn

When my youngest—nicknamed “Little Bit” because she’s always been on the petite side—was around 5, we were riding bikes in our old neighborhood. I was in the lead, and she was behind me, pedaling her little legs as fast as she could. I cheered her on:
“Come on, Little Bit!”
Without missing a beat, she yelled back:
“I’m coming, chubby!”
I didn’t find it funny. You know who did?
My husband. The man who’s supposed to be on my side.

The Hair Fairy Incident

This is the same child who once pulled out her own hair because she was jealous her older sister got money from the Tooth Fairy. She was determined the “Hair Fairy” would visit her too. I had to explain—with a straight face—that no such fairy exists and that we do not rip our hair out for profit. She didn’t care. She just wanted to cash in.

Sassy Spirit Activated

This child is the one we warn people about. She’s a sassy evil genius. We frequently tell her siblings,
“If you make her mad, sleep with one eye open.”
Her grandpa once got a front-row seat to her sass when she warned him:
“Don’t make my sassy spirit come out on such a beautiful day.”
What do you even say to that?

Thick Stick at the Steakhouse

When my son was 12, we went to a local steakhouse. He told his sister she was a “non-buff Hercules who gives hugs” (whatever that means). I jumped in and said,
“Look who’s talking, stick boy.”
His comeback?
“Look who’s talking, thick stick.”
Guess who was laughing so hard he nearly spit his drink out?
Yep. My husband. Again.
To be fair, he did tell our son he was in deep trouble—but not before the damage (and humiliation) was done.

The Walmart Swimsuit Saga

About two years ago, we decided last-minute to take the boat out before selling it. I needed a new swimsuit, so I dragged my two girls to Walmart. Thanks to some new meds, I had gone up a size and was feeling pretty low. I mentioned it to my husband, and my sweet, sweet Little Bit tried to comfort me:
*“Mom, you’re not chubby-chubby, you’re just chubby.”
So… progress?

Mean Girl in Training

I swear, this girl lives to mean-girl her own mother. It’s become such an epidemic that my best friend now steps in and corrects her whenever she sees her forget her sweet side. She’ll gently remind her to reign it in—and sometimes not so gently.

But here’s the thing: beneath all that sass is the biggest mama’s girl. She struggles with separation anxiety and doesn’t like sharing my attention. She’s just got a bigger personality than she knows what to do with.

Middle Child Magic

Now, you might’ve noticed I haven’t mentioned my middle daughter much. That’s because she’s the quiet one. She tends to observe from the background, rolling her eyes or giggling at her siblings’ drama. She’s the classic middle child—caught in the shuffle, but deeply loved.

She’s also a huge daddy’s girl. My husband makes sure to carve out one-on-one time with her, whether it’s working on the car or tackling yard projects. He’s the one person she’ll talk to nonstop, and I love seeing that bond grow.

The Real Secret to Surviving

If I’ve learned anything in this jungle of parenting, it’s this: the key to survival is snacks.
That old Snickers commercial? Spot on.
You’re not yourself when you’re hungry—and neither are your kids.

Behind the Curtain of Success

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Does anyone ever feel like they’re living in the shadow of their spouse or partner?

I met my husband during our senior year of high school. We went to separate schools and eventually got married two years after graduation. We had our son before he started college. He had been deferred after being medically discharged from the Marines.

He was awarded a full-ride scholarship to study Systems Engineering with an emphasis on Mechanical Engineering. During his second year of school, we had our daughter. He was working three jobs on campus, and I worked off and on full-time to help support our family while he pursued his degree. He graduated with honors in 2013. He was accepted into a PhD program for Physics but chose not to pursue it, knowing it wouldn’t offer much financial support for our family.

Shortly after graduation, he landed a job in the oil and gas industry. Around that time, I enrolled in college to pursue a degree in English Literature with an emphasis on Creative Writing. But when the industry crashed in 2015, he was laid off. We ended up moving to Oklahoma in September of that year. Unfortunately, no colleges nearby offered the same degree program I had started, so I put my education on hold.

Fast forward 10 years later, and I still haven’t finished my degree—or any degree—and he is currently earning dual Master’s degrees in Materials Science and Business.

He is incredibly hardworking and intelligent. If he doesn’t know something, he’ll research until he finds the answer or a solution. He’s charismatic, outgoing, a smooth talker, and a true people person. He always seems to get his way, and things just seem to fall into place for him.

I, on the other hand, feel cursed. If something can go wrong, it goes wrong for me. Like I mentioned in a previous post, I struggle with communication. I’m far too introverted to be a people person. I feel like I’m the raincloud to his sunshine.

I often joke, “Well, I’m just the reject (insert last name).” He doesn’t believe that, but things just don’t come as easily for me as they do for him. I’m not as accomplished—I stayed home with our kids and eventually had a third. I struggle to learn new things and understand how things work. I have to work twice as hard just to be on a fraction of the same level.

When people look at us, I wonder how often they see him as this smart, professional man—and me as the fumbling fool. He’s the king, and I’m the jester. Dance, monkey, dance.

Does anyone else struggle with this, or is it just me?

Life Changed Overnight: A Type 1 Diabetes Journey

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In October of 2021, our lives shifted forever.

My son had been complaining of stomach pain for a few days. Like any parent trying to avoid an unnecessary doctor visit, we tried the usual remedies. First, Tums—maybe it was something he ate. Then stool softeners—he’s had issues with constipation before. After exhausting all our typical at-home solutions, he insisted the pain was only getting worse.

Since it was after hours and neither his primary doctor nor any local clinics were open, I took him to the ER. We checked in around 7 p.m. By that time, he was rapidly declining—vomiting, growing weaker by the minute. He needed a wheelchair just to get to triage.

I sat helplessly as child after child—laughing, running, seemingly healthy—got called back before him. I understand triage works based on severity, but my son was deteriorating in front of my eyes. I had to repeatedly alert the nurses: “He’s vomiting.” “He’s about to pass out.” Still, we waited. At 3 a.m.—eight hours later—they finally took him back.

The usual workup began: vitals, blood draws, and then a COVID and flu test. When the doctor finally came in, his words hit like a truck.

“He’s COVID positive—and he’s in diabetic ketoacidosis. Your son is a Type 1 diabetic.”

They believed COVID had triggered the autoimmune response. His diabetes was always there, lurking beneath the surface, just waiting to emerge.

He was admitted and spent three days semi-conscious, hooked up to an insulin drip. He was 12 years old. It was the scariest, most stressful experience of my life as a mother. Due to COVID restrictions, only my husband and I could be with him. No visitors. Not that he would have recognized them—he wasn’t lucid.

Fast forward to today—he’s now a smart, witty, and ornery 16-year-old who’s about to get behind the wheel. The transition hasn’t been easy. Being diagnosed at 12 meant adjusting late in childhood, learning a whole new way of living. Like most growing teens, he’s hungry all the time—but he’s limited to 70g of carbs per meal. That’s not much for a teenager still growing and active.

It took over two years to get him on an insulin pump, which changed everything. With it, he can manage his blood sugar more consistently, and life feels a bit more normal. But the stress? That doesn’t go away. The financial burden is relentless. Insurance only covers so much, and what they don’t? We pay out of pocket—because he needs these supplies to live. There’s no pill for Type 1. This isn’t like managing Type 2 with diet or oral meds. This is survival—every single day.

And then there’s the school.

We’re constantly advocating for his 504 Plan to be upheld. He’s not allowed to take a test if his blood sugar is below 70 or above 250—it impairs his thinking. Yet a health teacher once forced him to stay and take a final when his blood sugar was in the 50s. His vision was going in and out, and she refused to let him leave to see the nurse. The nurse had to come to the classroom to get him. She stayed with him until he finished the test—because the teacher wouldn’t let him go.

He didn’t even tell me until two weeks after school ended. He was afraid.

And what was done about it? Nothing.

He’s not exempt from finals, even if he’s been out due to diabetes-related instability. If he gets sick, it takes him longer to recover. His blood sugar becomes unstable. He’s had almost all A’s, yet still, no grace. No mercy. Just expectations that don’t account for the reality of his life.

The emotional toll is real. He’s gone through counseling to cope—and it helped. But the weight of being different, of always fighting, of always having to prove himself? It wears on him. And as a parent, watching your child carry that kind of burden is unbearable.

A principal once told him, “Well, life isn’t fair.”

No kidding. He knows that better than most.

So here’s what I say: Do better.

Do better, insurance companies.
Do better, school systems.
Do better, world.

Because our kids deserve better.

Signed,
A frustrated and exhausted mother

Walk to a SoapBox

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The other day, I was walking with an old co-worker, just shooting the breeze. We got on the topic of comfort shows. She mentioned how she’ll rewatch something for a while, then get tired of it and move on. Me? I can watch my favorites to death.

This drives my husband crazy. He’ll look over and groan, “Not again… Can we please watch something different?”

But here’s the thing—I have anxiety. Watching something new can be really tough for me. I never know how I’ll react, especially emotionally. That’s a big reason I steer clear of true crime. I know, I know… how uncool of me. Sorry guys, but I just can’t do it. One episode and I’ll be up all night with nightmares.

So I stick to a small circle of comfort shows. Ones I can turn on before bed to relax, or during the day for background noise. My lineup includes:
🦖 Jurassic Park
👔 The Office (US)
☕ Gilmore Girls
🏠 New Girl
👯 Friends

Which brings me to my soapbox…

We started talking about Friends. She likes it—can watch it for a while. But me? I’ve seen it at least a thousand times. Growing up as a product of the ’90s, it was a staple. But now, watching it as an adult, I’ve realized something that younger me completely missed:

Ross Geller is the worst.

There, I said it.

He whines constantly. He acts superior and is always correcting people. And let’s be honest, he didn’t treat the women he was with all that well. He needed things to go his way or not at all.

He kissed Rachel before breaking things off with Julie. He projected all his insecurities onto Rachel, especially when she started working at her new job. I don’t think Rachel was into Mark at all—she was just trying to build a career and feel proud of herself after years of being seen as the “spoiled rich girl.” But Ross couldn’t handle her working with a guy he deemed attractive. Instead of supporting her, he spiraled emotionally and dumped it all on her.

I totally get why Rachel needed a break.

Now here’s the opinion that might not be so popular:
I don’t think Ross technically cheated during “the break.”

Rachel initiated it. It felt more like a mini-break to me. But instead of using that time to reflect on what went wrong and how to fix it, Ross dove straight into someone else’s bed. Sure, it wasn’t cheating by definition—but emotionally? It hurt. Bad. They were in love. They had a long-term connection. That night with Chloe made everything worse.

And then later—when he was with Bonnie—and Rachel showed signs she still had feelings? He dropped Bonnie like a hot potato. (Peace out, baldy!)

Looking back, it’s so clear: Ross was toxic. Insecure. Self-centered. And if you rewatch the show with that lens, you can’t unsee it.

Anyway… this is just my soapbox. Just my opinion. Ultimately it amounts to nothing. But if you’re reading this and yelling “THANK YOU!”—then hey, maybe it’s not just me after all.

Finding a Voice

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Growing up, my dad always teased me about “singing like a canary.” See, when I was a child, I would always go and tell him everything—everything my mother and brothers did or said. I was Daddy’s eyes and ears, and everyone knew it.

As I became an adult, I learned to be silent. Silent so people wouldn’t judge or twist my words. Silent to keep the peace, to spare people’s feelings, and to avoid making waves. Over time, you become a more bound version of yourself.

I woke up the other day and realized I had lost my voice. I don’t sing anymore. No, I don’t mean tattling. I mean I stopped sharing. I stopped talking and truly communicating with those around me. I became “an island unto myself.”

But this is my breakout debut.
Welcome to my stage.
Listen to my songs.
I promise you’ll laugh and cry.
Hopefully, you’ll relate to some—and be encouraged by others.

I’ve found that it’s easier to write than to speak. I can text, email, or write you letters all day long. But if you want to have a conversation? I’m a stuttering mess. I’m horrible at holding conversations—and definitely at initiating them. I know there are other introverts like me who struggle with this. Do you ever feel embarrassed or inadequate? I know I do.

I can’t help but be a little jealous of those who speak so freely and confidently. My husband is one of them. I’m enthralled by how he can capture people’s attention. This man can literally get people to do whatever he needs—he’s just that smooth.

Please, conversation gods—tell me, how does one gain these skills?

Who knows? Maybe by finding my voice here, I’ll find it out there.

at June 12, 2025 No comments: