The urge to scratch was almost impossible to resist, and the feeling persisted even after a generous amount of tiger balm ointment had been applied. Weird—this stubborn coin-sized lesion found on my thigh had been tingling, luring for a scratch. How long this had been going on I wasn’t sure at all. But now that I noticed it, I was startled to realise I couldn’t stop the itch.
Obsessed with the itch, my mind started to whirl; I tried a variety of strategies to impose my will over this little lesion. I tried numerous remedies and the result was the same. It would submit to whatever I applied but shortly after I let up, silently it would go again.
“For Christ’s sake, gal,” I told myself. “It’s just a small lesion.” But that was the point: it wasn’t just any old itch; it was an itch that wouldn’t budge.
Trying to ignore my rising uneasiness, I casually mentioned to my mum over dinner one night about my stubborn itch. She immediately took the matters in her hands and brought me to our family doctor the next day. The doctor encouraged me to explain what I was experiencing and took his time looking at the lesion. The doctor didn’t seem worried, assuring me it was not life threatening and referred me to the Polyclinic for some tests.
Even the most horrid of my fantasy would not have prepared me for the one word: Psoriasis. Recollecting my exact response is difficult; there are gaps. I stared at him blankly. I don’t think I felt anything.
The doctor said some more words – young-onset, progressive, and incurable. At your age, new drugs new hope… My only clear memory is of wondering why he was doing this to me, and what I was going to do.
Having no idea about what this monster was, vaguely understanding that I would feel its teeth and claws for a lifetime, my family closed rank and enveloped me in a warm loving cocoon of encouragement and assurances.
Nevertheless, a part inside me refused to accept the fact. I tried to ignore the itching. As more lesions appeared on my body, I became sullen and withdrawn. Stubbornly I refused to apply the smelly creams clinging to fantasies of escape, hoping the lesions would fade away one day.
I spent very little time considering my life with Psoriasis. Instead, I religiously plotted ways to keep busy. I threw myself into books – any books I could get my hands on; even though my studies were improving, my condition did not.
Very soon my emotions reached rock bottom. I was polite to my family and was too dispirited to enjoy my friends’ company. Then, one night before my birthday, I found myself alone, reminiscing happier times and wept. This was the cue of surrender.
Somehow, things became more focused after this. The first step was for me, at long last to face something that I knew would likely to be my lifetime companion. I began actively researching into my condition. The information I knew helped chip away at my uncertainty and sense of isolation. All this was happening to many others with Psoriasis too. I was not alone.
My family too noticed my change. My sister remembered the change in my outlook: “Your hopefulness came back, your cheerfulness. You weren’t so quiet all the time. It was like a butterfly starting to emerge from its cocoon.” As I accepted Psoriasis as a fact of life, I lowered my guard at home and with friends allowing myself to be open with my symptoms. What a relief it was to relax for a change.
Years go by and I’m still a regular outpatient at the National Skin Centre. My condition is still the same. I am not at all surprised. I was sad, but I wasn’t angry. I have known for years that this is an inevitability. So what am I going to do now? Looking at the smelly creams the answer is clear. I am going to do what I have been doing every day for past years: dutifully applying the cream on my body every day and do the best I could with whatever lies in front of me.
