7:30 a.m.: I put on the gown and am examined by two very pleasant women. Every inch of my face, neck, back, arms, hands, legs, and feet are scrutinized and I realize, not for even the hundredth time, this body is not beautiful in many ways. But it is mine.
8:30 a.m.: Two more very pleasant women bring three lunch trays full of patches into the room. They begin applying the patches to my back, and I don't think they notice that a couple tears escape. I'm overwhelmed with the memories of the first time we did this - willfully exposing me to potential toxins and actually hoping for reactions so that conclusions can be drawn - and with the uncertainty of how this round will go.
9:30 a.m.: I'm walking out of the office feeling stiff from the tape all over my back and biceps. The adhesive smells like gas or exhaust or something similar.
8:30 p.m.: I think I'm starting to get itchy. But maybe it's just the discomfort of not being able to move properly. I can't lift my arms without risking disturbing the patches and muddying the results, so I can't do my hair, get a glass out of the cupboard, or change my shirt. This is a fantastic excuse for why I didn't make my son's bed.
9:30 p.m.: I get into bed and reflect upon how glad I am that I don't feel like something is crawling underneath my skin and I'm not allowed to itch it. Is that where I was at the 12-hour mark last time? I don't remember the timing, just the insane feeling. I'm glad I'm not pacing the room unable to concentrate on anything, and that I'm lying here sans ice pack. On the other hand, if I expect answers to the mystery of what's been giving me this under-the-surface, eating at my soul itchiness I need to react to these patches. I need hives and eczema and angry red splotches under some of these little circles so that I can know what substances to never, ever touch again. But I'm tired, and for all I know I could be miserable and sleeping on ice in a matter of hours, so I'll be thankful just now.
Middle of the night: I think the smell is tires.
Day 2 Observations
9:30 a.m.: Twenty-four hours in and I'm not going crazy, but I feel the itch.
9:30 p.m.: I'm not any worse ... so is this working? Because if it's not, this is one expensive failure. And I'll still be wondering what has made the last nine months periodically unbearable.
Day 3 Observations
7:30 a.m.: I'm back on the table, gown on, and some of the smartest women I've ever met are ready to take off the patches for the initial analysis. They go one by one through the patches, looking and feeling along the way for reactions and declaring "negative," or "doubtful," or "one," or "two." Having done this before, I know what I'm hearing, and what I'm hearing is mostly negatives but also quite a few ones and twos. I'm relieved the reactions are there because that means the test will be worth it... but damn, that's a lot of reactions.
8:30 a.m.: We finally face each other and talk. I reacted to several personal products and several other patches. No dyes, which is what I had suspected. But these results are not final. The nature of skin allergies is such that they know a true analysis can't happen until the patches and their substances have been off for two days, and anything could change in that time.
9:30 a.m.: I leave wondering if the itch will continue to get worse, because I know that just because the allergen is gone doesn't mean its gone.
Day 4 Observations
8:30 a.m.: I slept well enough, without ice. Knowing that reactions are happening without suffering the misery I know they can bring gives me a refreshing sense of good luck after so many months of setback after setback.
2:30 p.m.: The discomfort has grown. Still not miserably so, but I'm now also feeling vaguely itchy at my hairline, on my face, and at the back of my neck. Light bulb! I don't always use shampoo but knowing I wouldn't be washing my hair all week I gave it a really good wash with both shampoo and conditioner the night before Day 1. And the shampoo was one of the personal products that created a reaction, now four days later.
9:30 p.m.: I'm not any worse ... so is this working? Because if it's not, this is one expensive failure. And I'll still be wondering what has made the last nine months periodically unbearable.
Day 3 Observations
7:30 a.m.: I'm back on the table, gown on, and some of the smartest women I've ever met are ready to take off the patches for the initial analysis. They go one by one through the patches, looking and feeling along the way for reactions and declaring "negative," or "doubtful," or "one," or "two." Having done this before, I know what I'm hearing, and what I'm hearing is mostly negatives but also quite a few ones and twos. I'm relieved the reactions are there because that means the test will be worth it... but damn, that's a lot of reactions.
8:30 a.m.: We finally face each other and talk. I reacted to several personal products and several other patches. No dyes, which is what I had suspected. But these results are not final. The nature of skin allergies is such that they know a true analysis can't happen until the patches and their substances have been off for two days, and anything could change in that time.
9:30 a.m.: I leave wondering if the itch will continue to get worse, because I know that just because the allergen is gone doesn't mean its gone.
Day 4 Observations
8:30 a.m.: I slept well enough, without ice. Knowing that reactions are happening without suffering the misery I know they can bring gives me a refreshing sense of good luck after so many months of setback after setback.
2:30 p.m.: The discomfort has grown. Still not miserably so, but I'm now also feeling vaguely itchy at my hairline, on my face, and at the back of my neck. Light bulb! I don't always use shampoo but knowing I wouldn't be washing my hair all week I gave it a really good wash with both shampoo and conditioner the night before Day 1. And the shampoo was one of the personal products that created a reaction, now four days later.
Day 5 Observations
8:30 a.m.: I slept ok again and my mood is great today. Last day. The day I find out. The day I can shower. The day I can take back control.
11:00 a.m.: Back in the gown for the last look. My brilliant scientists go over all my patches just like they did 48 hours ago, remarking on the rarity of some of my reactions and murmuring about things that make sense according to my last test and what they saw the previous day. They ask to take pictures of me and after doing so they leave to draw up my papers.
12:00 p.m.: The doctors and I sit together to finally discuss the results. News. Real facts. This is not just another appointment made out of desperation with another specialist who will prescribe something to (probably poorly) mask my symptoms. Now I get answers.
1:00 p.m.: The elevator is small and I'm sharing it with a woman who's business in this building is unknown. I wonder if she's wondering about my business like I'm wondering about hers. The hallway to the parking ramp is similarly stifling, but I'm thankful that, once I get to my car, I'm alone. There's no parking attendant because a machine has replaced that job here and I'm glad. I cry because I'm relieved (answers) and scared (future) and angry (past) and hopeful (also future). Now I can start to move on and I will try not to dwell on the possibility that I might find myself repeating this all someday, again.
11:00 a.m.: Back in the gown for the last look. My brilliant scientists go over all my patches just like they did 48 hours ago, remarking on the rarity of some of my reactions and murmuring about things that make sense according to my last test and what they saw the previous day. They ask to take pictures of me and after doing so they leave to draw up my papers.
12:00 p.m.: The doctors and I sit together to finally discuss the results. News. Real facts. This is not just another appointment made out of desperation with another specialist who will prescribe something to (probably poorly) mask my symptoms. Now I get answers.
1:00 p.m.: The elevator is small and I'm sharing it with a woman who's business in this building is unknown. I wonder if she's wondering about my business like I'm wondering about hers. The hallway to the parking ramp is similarly stifling, but I'm thankful that, once I get to my car, I'm alone. There's no parking attendant because a machine has replaced that job here and I'm glad. I cry because I'm relieved (answers) and scared (future) and angry (past) and hopeful (also future). Now I can start to move on and I will try not to dwell on the possibility that I might find myself repeating this all someday, again.
