[img]1325|left|Alex Campbell ||no_popup[/img]Dateline Boston — I got married three weeks ago. It was wonderful. We had a blast. We were dressed in true hipster style, from our matching custom-made Converse to his fedora hat, to my fascinator, to our shiny platinum rings.
Oh, those rings. They’re gorgeous. They sparkle and shine, and itch. Itch? That’s right. A week after we pledged to spend the rest of our lives together, my ring finger felt a little funny. I took my rings off and noticed a few bumps right where the rings had been. I cursed my sensitive skin and took the rings off. That was Friday.
On Saturday, I wore my rings on a cord around my neck. At about 4 o’clock, the bumps on my finger were getting bigger, and I developed a bumpy rash on the side of my face. I started freaking out. H drove me to the urgent care doctor, who met me at the check-in desk, as it was closing time. Doc took one look at my finger and said I was having an allergic reaction.
Me: It’s not heat rash?
Doc: No.
Me: It’s not soap?
Doc: No.
Me: What about my face?
Doc: I’m not sure. Why don’t you make an appointment with your dermatologist on Monday?
On Sunday, my finger began to swell. A small blister appeared on the side of my finger. The rash on my face continued under my chin and was now a lovely shade of pink. I began popping Benadryl, to no avail.
By Tuesday morning, the top of my ring finger was oozy. The blister had grown enormous. It wasn’t quite the size of a dime, but it was close. It had a pattern going through it—I dare say it was beautiful. Every few hours I’d say to H, “Do you think my blister can get any bigger?” He’d say no, then I’d thrust my hand in his face. He was astonished every single time. By the time I got to the dermatologist in the afternoon, the rash had spread to my eyelids as well. I looked like I had stepped in the ring and lost. I couldn’t wait to show the dermatologist and find out what horrible affliction had taken over my body.
H accompanied me and sat down quietly as Derm looked me over and declared that I had eczema. Eczema? Dermatitis? A skin rash? That’s it? He went through all the questions I’d heard a million times before as someone with sensitive skin: Had I used any new soaps? Lotions? Detergents? No, no, and no. He thought my hand had come in contact with something. It wasn’t the rings themselves, as no one is really allergic to platinum. Unless the rings had some nickel in them, which my jeweler assured me they didn’t.
Derm said the blister was quite angry, so he was going to skip a cortisone cream and even pills, and go straight to a steroid injection. He also gave me the option of getting a biopsy of my face, to confirm his diagnosis. I told him to take whatever he wanted.
After the biopsy, he gave me the injection and had the nurse take a bunch of photos. Who knows? Maybe I’d get to be one of those horrible photos you can’t unsee when you do a Google image search of various afflictions. I was instructed to stay home and take it easy for a couple of days while the steroid did its work.
Somewhere during the day on Wednesday my face showed signs of improvement. My finger, however, was going through all sorts of changes. The ooze had dried to a honey-colored crust. So help me, the blister expanded. I told H that I saw Sea Monkeys swimming around in there. I thought they were erecting a town hall and post office. I created an album on Facebook entitled “Mister Blister,” which included 27 of the best shots from 136 I had taken over the past six days. When I have an ailment, I like to document it.
On Thursday I called Derm’s office and said that the blister was alive and kicking. Derm instructed me to lance it, and informed me that the biopsy results had come back with a diagnosis of eczema. Good to know. Having never lanced a blister before, I was a little nervous, but I did my best. As the needle punctured Mister Blister, I felt a pang of sadness mixed with guilt, as if I were putting down a pet. I noticed that it was draining clear at first, and then red. Blood? Was that normal?
I called Derm’s office and spoke to his nurse. I told her that I had killed my blister, and asked if it was normal for blood to be inside it. She instructed me to just let it drain slowly, put Vaseline on it, and cover it with a band-aid. She told me not to mess with it.
Mister Blister finally died two days later. I had taken the band-aid off to let my finger get some air, and the most amazing thing happened: The skin on the top of my finger, which had hardened to what I thought would be scar tissue, suddenly flaked open. It was like a chrysalis—underneath the cocooned skin was my finger, the way it used to be! Mister Blister was a flat, red, perfect circle.
I’m writing this on Wednesday. I have an appointment for metal testing in a week. This afternoon Mister Blister began pulling away from my finger. I think he’s ready to go. I won’t miss him, but I must admit that this whole process has been fascinating.
In two weeks, I’ve learned the following:
• I still don’t know what caused my finger to take on a life of its own.
• Photographing the healing process is very satisfying.
• Eczema does not have the letter “x” in it.
In sickness and in health, that’s what they say. I think H and I have passed the test.
Ms. Campbell may be contacted at snobbyblog@gmail.com
