Today saw my last-but-one phototherapy appointment at the hospital. It was my 25th session and I’m feeling crumbly.
My eczema is much better for the treatment, but it dries me out so much that I sometimes look like Jacob Marley from Scrooged. What do you mean, you don’t get that reference? It’s top-five Bill Murray. Kids today. Fine. Pictured above.
It’s hard work as eczema treatment goes. I have to vaccum the flat every day lest we become ankle-deep in flakes.
Unfortunately, I shed as fast as I can suck so it makes no difference. I’m like that cleaner from the Monsters Inc. factory who leaves a trail of slime as quickly as he mops. That a better reference for you is it? Kids. Honestly, I’ll have to start putting up signs. “Your brow must be this high to ride this ride.”
The best shedding day saw my whole back peeling off in big salty curls. For a morning I knew what it was like to have feathers.
I plucked one off deliciously, saying “thish one’s a keeper.” Any good? Goldmember. 2002. Dividing the room that one, I can tell.
“Don’t pick it,” said Samara don’t-fall-off-you’ll-spoil-the-holiday Leibowitz, “get your creeaaam.”
If I had a penny for every time I got my creeaaam…
Anyway. As I said, today was the last-but-one session. I got in the tube and was blasted with the now-familiar UV rays. Well, I say “now-familiar” but there was a lot of excitment at the hospital this week because, and I quote, “we’ve got a new bulb.”
The dematology nurses have become used to me and I can tell they’re going to miss my Singing Detective references. There’s an end-of-term vibe in the department and they keep asking me what I’m going to do next.
Well, they ask me that every time, but they usually mean in the short term. “Home to get my creeaaam,” is the only answer I can ever give them.
But they mean longer-term now. Travel plans. Career moves. That sort of thing. They’re moving on themselves because the hospital is being demolished. These appointment have been like stepping into a chapter of Swing Hammer Swing! Look, don’t make me tap the sign. Jeff Torrington didn’t die for me to have to tap the sign. This high, I said.
My first walks to the hospital looked like this:
But now they looks like… well, I haven’t taken a picture of how it looks now because it’s not very dramtic, but this shot should do the job:
My final session is on Monday, which is lucky because I’m not sure I can lose any more parts. I’m to feel like Brundlefly. No good? Oh naff orf.
And then, as I told the nurses, I fly to Paris to begin a two-month period of travel. Paris, Utrecht, Amsterdam, Barcelona, Zagreb, Belgrade, Athens, and (assuming they let me in) Montreal. Beat that.
I didn’t say “beat that” to the nurses. While I’m out there, they’ll be stuck here, breathing concrete dust. Mind you, I’ll be still breathing bits of myself wherever I go.
I’ll miss my little chats with the nurses. I’ll never see them again, but, if they want me they can follow the trail of feathers.
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If you’re affected by cripsy skin, call the National Eczema Society on 020 7281 3553.