Tag: writing

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.

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?

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: