Red Rash of Rage

One of the hazards of life happens to be mysterious rashes. You know the kind; the ones that are red pin pricks, small little goosebumps that slowly spread up and down your appendages; bringing with it the burning itch that is designed to slowly drive you out of your mind while you lay there, a broken, clawed, bleeding spirit, just wishing for the itch to stop.

Welcome to my world.

I'm not allergic to anything. Except those fuzzy yellow and black caterpillars and those don't count because I only reacted to them after spending the afternoon petting them and allowing their poisonous feet to touch my skin. Stupid yes, but I was eight. And those fuzzy catepillars were darned cute.

My rash is so bad that yesterday I took the day off of work to go and sit in our local yokel doctor's office. Normally I would avoid small town medicine like an itchy rash, but I decided to give this gentleman a try. He is a young doctor, fairly new to practice and he seems half-intelligent. He's not like the other aging pill-pusher's our town has, more eager to get on the golf course than interested in listening to your complaints about mysterious red bumps.

Upon my arrival I was immediately ushered in to an examination room. Where I sat and scratched until the young doctor made his appearance. He was intelligent, articulate and more importantly, sympathetic. He listened, he looked, he pondered.

My diagnosis: I have a rash. My treatment: don't scratch.

I drove 30 odd kilometers, found a babysitter for my recovering daughter and my untrained puppy, and missed work for that pearl of wisdom.

I love small town medicine. Meanwhile, I'm scratching my ass off and hunting for calamine lotion.