Rash Out: A Case of Jobitis

First a few speckles—like the red sprinkles my daughter loves to put on her cupcake. Then the speckles multiply, mutating, traveling in a pack up the arm. I looked at it and thought—umm—a small price to pay for lugging the prickly Christmas tree into the house. No big deal—I have that every year and I survived!

And as if the traveling packs of red dots were not just content to territorialize one arm, they magically made their grand entrance on the arm. Alert!—my mind warned. Still, I dismissed it—oh, it will go away in a day or two. Soon my abdomen was spotting them too—like a bad fashion statement gone wrong. An entire belt of red bumps across and then, it came—without mercy, the itch.

The incredible itch that sent my mind scrambling for some explanations. Can’t be the tree—it never was that nasty. What about food? Did I eat anything that trigger it off? Then the answer, which should have been clear but I was too dense to believe that medication can actually hurt you. Right, the antibiotics the doctor prescribed just 3 days ago. Amoxicillin—-penicillin meant to kill bacteria but had gone awry. My body detests the invasion, so it launches a massive counter-move, meant to protect me but really, I wish my body would have some discernment as this point. Apparently not.

So begin the saga of the itch that stole my joy and my sanity. By the time I realized that I was allergic to amoxicillin, all the doctors have gone home. I can consider the emergency room, but I know what ordeal would ensue—countless hours of waiting. Alright, I will brave the night. I can do it, right?

I took Benadryl and hoped for the best. The itch, however, was set for some drama. It intensified, so much that I felt like Job, sitting in the middle of my bed, everyone in Lala land, but me—poor me—scraping at my rash. My fingers couldn’t move fast enough, my scraping could satisfy the itch enough—-soon, I was pinching the itch, digging my nails into them just for an ounce of relief. But the more I scratched, the more I itched and there seemed no pleasing this itch monster. I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry but nothing came out of my mouth—all I hear is the scraping and the moans that escaped in the still darkness.

How I survived the night and the next two nights before the Prednisone work, I have no idea. My misery found kinship with Job’s suffering and I thought I had a vicarious peek into the time when Job’s body was covered with sores. I know it’s not a fair comparison—he definitely had it worse, since he also had to contend with cantankerous friends. Thank God, the affinity stopped there. I don’t want to go there because I had enough. I never want another itch like this and I’m sure Job would be nodding his head in Heaven and saying, "Ahh....the good old days, when suffering refines..." Or not!