I am a stomach sleeper: a lover of pillowed pressure on my stomach, chest and face. Currently, I sleep on the right side of the bed. For some reason, known only to my subconscious and Freud, I will always choose the side of the bed furthest away from the bedroom door; regardless of how far away the nearest toilet is.
With my left leg slightly bent, my left foot standing sentry outside of doona and furry blanket cover regulating temperature, my arms bent underneath my chest and hands crossed, my face turned to the left snuggled into the most comfortable feather pillow on the planet, allowing the coolness of the cotton pillowcase to sooth me, I fall into a content sleep.
This is after the routine squirming, turning, pillow pummelling, throwing covers off, pulling covers back on, smoothing out a small wrinkle on the pillowcase, smoothing out a large crease in the sheet, turning on to my left side, rolling over on to my right side, pushing the corner of the pillow under, tugging the corner of the pillow free, straightening my left leg and bending my right leg, straightening my right leg and bending my left leg, turning on to my right side, repeat the leg straightening and bending and alternating. Think fish out of water. (A fish doesn’t have legs. Shut up. Oh, okay.) Think worm out of soil. (Um, a worm doesn’t have legs. Shut. Up.Oh, okay.) Think woman in her fifties trying to get comfortable!
One morning I woke up itchy between my breasts. I scratched at the itch without opening my eyes thinking, once scratched, the itch would go away and I could return to sleep. Before my brain had registered, I had scratched the top off a small lump, which erupted in fluid. What the fork was that? My eyes were open now. I panicked, thinking I’d scratched a mole, turned on the light, threw my glasses on my face and investigated.
There nestled in between my boobs were a dozen or so blister-like lumps and one red sore gooey with fluid; the lump I’d scratched. What the hell are those? And why are they so itchy? I went to the bathroom, showered, deodorised and sprayed perfume in the usual places. Screamed when the alcohol in the perfume made contact with the blisters: in the manner of Macaulay Culkin in the aftershave ‘Home Alone’ scene and put some fatty ointment between my breasts – my husband had used this ointment to relieve blue bottle jellyfish stings so it should do the trick.
Within the next hour there were blister troops spreading out under my boobs and were sending lookouts to reconnoitre the area above them. It has to be heat rash. We live in Queensland. It’s summer. Yeah, it’s heat rash … So, why haven’t they sprouted before now? Hmmm … puzzling. The blisters now come and go like the seasons. Regardless of weather, heat, cold, perfume, clothes detergent, soap, lotions, alcohol or lack thereof. Hmmm … puzzling-er.
Around the same time, or perhaps quite a few years earlier, I can’t remember: I’m fifty. (Am I? Yes, fifty-four actually. Fork! Yes! As I was saying …) Some time previous to the blistering appearance of the blisters, as I was pulling my undies down – there is a definite theme here – my fingers grazed some rough skin on my outer thigh. It was (and still is) the size of a five-cent piece, is slightly raised and feels rough; like well fried fish skin. Scales! I have scales! More ‘what the forks’ were internally asked. Another theme.
Thinking the scale was a one off and possibly an age spot or sun spot or whatever the fruit-loops the spots on the skin with no melatonin are called, I didn’t give it much thought; unless I was pulling down or pulling up my undies. That is until over the next few years another one appeared. And another. And another And another. Bringing us to present day and I am a fish! I have a scale on my upper right arm, the odd one or three on my shoulders and back, plus one which makes sporadic cameo guest appearances on my right calf. Occasionally, when I’m just about to shed, these little scales become itchy. I scratch them and they come away in dry, scaly clumps and bleed. It’s a win/win outcome.
Now, as I am of the go-to-the-doctor-for-pain-only persuasion, or unless I need a doctor’s certificate for flu or the like, the following may upset you. Warning. Warning. Cover your ears! Read the following at your peril. Seriously, you will be shocked! I do not prescribe to regular vag scrapes, boob presses, mole checks, blood tests, et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseum, fortes in fide, ad hoc, carpe diem. I know, I know. Scandalous! I hear ya though I don’t agree with ya! Not one to jump on a soap box (neither able to nor inclined to) and wax scathing about the health industry, we’ll just have to agree to disagree and … you were warned. Plus pap-smears and mammograms were obviously invented by sadist penis owners (just ask yourself how they find testicular cancer – not a sandwich press in sight!). And, I abhor needles.
The above has nothing to do with Dr Google though. Curiosity is how we humans developed. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it! So, I researched. (Another theme here.) Like a Spanish explorer sailing the seven seas; surviving vicious storms, dead calms, sea sickness, the odd burst blister between my boobs and a couple of bleeding scales. Land ho! (Who are you calling a ho? Oh, for forks sake …) I find that I am an excellent surfer. Gnarly dude, totally righteous. We interrupt this story to do a quick Internet quiz. Stayed tuned.
Eureka! (Or for those younger than 50 – Wahoo!) I have the answers. I am all knowledgeable and worthy of a Nobel Prize. A trophy? A medal? A sticker? How about a smiley-face stamp? Nothing? Really? So, after some self applied back patting … Food allergies! Eat eggs: break out in itchy bitchy blisters. Eat wheat: grow scales. So it’s off to the doctor for a celiac test. What the fork? I love eggs on toast! (Fork! I’m fifty!)