The rash on my forehead had gotten worse in the past few months.
I’d tried a few homemade remedies before contacting the doctor: swabbing the rash with a few driblets of morning piss, slathering it with swath of aloe vera gel, and finally, dabbing it with a couple of drops of tea tree oil, a particularly fitting remedy as the red patches were alive with small yellow pustules that looked suspiciously like spores of a fungal infection. To my eye, anyway.
With the dose of tea tree oil, the shit hit the fan. The rash spread like wildfire all the way down to my left eye-lid, threatening to mar the beauty of my baby blue eyes.
I decided it was time to see the skin doctor. The itch had become unbearable.
Miraculously, the doctor had a free appointment available that same day.
I meditated before I left, dousing the malady in white light and peace, a last attempt to heal the sickness from within. It was a difficult meditation. Interspersed between the heavenly thoughts of light, love, and eternal bliss, came images of the bubonic plaque, lung cancer, and demise. Hard to find peace when the mind is running wild with thoughts of Seventh chakra eczema.
With a dour look, the doctor invited me into his office, glanced at the top of my head, and asked if I’d been sleeping on a sandpaper pillow. I told him a was a yogi, accustomed to sleeping on a bed of nails, but my pillow was of purest Scandinavian down.
He didn’t smile.
When I told him that I’d slipped in headstand and maybe burned my forehead on the carpet, his mood remained gruff.
Afraid to lose my captive audience, I sobered and I informed him I first noticed an outbreak 30 years ago and thought it had something to do with the makeup I was using.
“But, I haven’t been using makeup for some time now,” I added. (I probably should have mentioned I was a stage performer and not a crossdresser at that point, but it slipped my mind.)
“Oh,” he replied. His face remained as if sculpted in stone.
“So. What is it? Please be honest. A rash, fungus infection, the outbreak of the bubonic plague?”
No smile. Obviously, a no-nonsense Prussian.
“Cranial herpes?” My last try.
“Herpes usually doesn’t show up on the crown of the head.” His reply was somber, as was to be expected.
“Here,” he said, handing me the prescription he’d just written. “If it’s not better in 3 months, make another appointment.”
If it’s not better in three days, I’m finding another doctor, I thought. The guy hadn’t even leaned in for a closer look, hadn’t seen the yellow pustules that had ruined my mediation, never considered I’d had the thing for a longer period of time.
I looked down at the prescription. “Can I use the cream to treat the white crust that keeps showing in my ears?” White scaly flakes dropped out of ears whenever I scratched for as long as I could remember. Probably eczema. Or, psoriasis. Ear dandruff?
“I doubt it. Like the rash, that’s also a reoccurring symptom of old age.”
Which meant, what? That I’d been old for over 30 years now and hadn’t realized it?
The next day, I contacted a dermatologist and made an appointment. I had to wait six months, but it was worth it.
Much to my relief, it had nothing to do with old age at all.
Simply a mild form of skin cancer.
Glad to report it’s all cleared up now. But there’s a suspicious-looking pimple on my left butt cheek that came up last week. Itches like hell, but what can you do?