Pride

I’m sitting in the doctor’s office, waiting for the test results and wondering how it came to this…

Slowly, over the past few weeks, my skin began drying, flaking, and eventually cracking—whilst a film of itchy scales developed over every inch of me. There are scabs on my scalp, in my mouth, and even under my fingernails, which came from hours of clawing for some relief. 

It’s disgusting and embarrassing. But I could tolerate those inconveniences if it weren’t for the pain. 

A nurse walks into the exam room. I wanted to talk to a Doctor. Where is he? 

“I have good news!” she chirps, with far too much pep to be feeling sympathy for me.  “You have chronic Sabaceous Infectorial Necrocytosis!* Rather than the usually harmless oily substance emitted by your sweat glands, a highly toxic chemical is being produced, which causes the epidermis cells to expire far more rapidly than they can reproduce.”  I’m not in the mood for obnoxious healthcare jargon.

“How is that good news?” I ask.

“Oh,” she laughs, as if this is funny. “The condition itself is awful." The nurse digs through a cabinet and removes a syringe, continuing her impromptu health lesson. "Actually, the scabs and scratching are only half the problem. If left untreated, Infectorial Necrocytosis progresses into mood disorders and blindness….”  

 She glances at me, like she expects me to beg for the rest. Is this some kind of power trip?

“But, on to the good news,” she continues, with that fake smile.  “Doc actually developed the drug which he uses to treat thousands with your precise problem. You came to the right place!” She looks irritatingly pleased with herself, so I pin her with a glare and say the first thing I think:

“You think I have a problem?”  Finally, her permagrin disappears, and I’m fueled by this response. “Something tells me you haven’t, personally, treated many others in my condition, with an insensitive statement like that.”

 “I—I didn’t mean to imply a jab at you personally,” she stammers. Now, she takes a step forward to attempt the compassion she obviously doesn't possess naturally. “Thousands have been cured—good as new. We can relieve you of the scratching and burning today, if you roll up your sleeve for the shot.”   Whoa. Whoa.

“Whoa!" I argue. "What do you mean ‘we’? All I see is you, and now I’m wondering where your absentee boss is? I never agreed to treatment from a stranger!”   The more I think about it, the more worked up I get. In my head, frustration spins in fragments—until that condescending voice pierces the air again. 

“The Doctor who oversees this clinic isn’t in the office today. But we have protocol for this situation.”

 This lady is not making sense. How can a Doctor “oversee” from another location? How does she know she’s following his orders?

“I don’t have a problem, Nurse.” I say, standing and holding my gown closed in the back. “At least not a problem you can claim to understand.” I’m really spinning now. “How do you know those orders were written by the Doctor? How do you know you’ve interpreted them correctly?”

“Friend, listen,” she says seriously. (I’m not your friend.) “The Necrocytosis has progressed further than I thought.  If you take the injection, you'll understand what I'm saying.” 

“I said I don’t need an injection!”  I insist. But the words emerge far less forcefully than I expect. Deep inside, a cool calm is spreading. My skin continues to crawl with fire ants—but, somehow, my heart detects a bit of peace. My mouth continues, without my brain: “First you claim to know what’s happening in my body, and you tell me I need to get fixed. Now you’re totally sure you know what the Doctor would do if he were here. But can you prove you speak for him?”  I’ve almost gotten my shoes tied. 

The nurse looks panic-stricken now: “I can show you the prescription, or have another nurse explain the procedure—“

“Prescriptions are easily forged. Is there any way you can say, for certain, the Doctor authorized this drug?”

“Yes!”

“Then you're haughtier than I thought. No one can speak for another with certainty.”  I hardly hear myself, through the rush of endorphins flooding my entire body. I haven’t felt this good in weeks! As I zip up my coat, I really let her have it: “Your over-confidence has cost you a patient today. I wouldn’t trust your judgment if you paid me—never mind would I pay you for a “cure.” In fact, the longer I stay, the more I wonder whether I have a problem at all.”    The nurse sniffs, though I can't see her with my back turned to leave…and, also, my vision is a little blurry. 

I call over my shoulder: “Thank you for your very interesting opinion, but I’m comfortable with my decision.” And the door closes behind me.

I whistle as I scratch my abdomen and walk toward my car.

------

That was six months ago, and things have gotten even better since then.

Online, I discovered a whole community of “Skin-Flakers,” and they agree I was wise to leave the know-it-all nurse behind. It turns out, there are many ways to cope with Sebaceous Infectorial Necrocytosis, which the jealous, money-hungry “professionals” don’t like to discuss.

Now I swear by a moisturizing cold-cream, which takes the unbearable edge off my pain. The man who formulates it says he’s a relative of my first Doc. And, as my new friends teach me to pursue that internal peace, the memory of the day I was diagnosed almost vanishes. I mean, my skin still burns at night sometimes. But, I’m really, truly happy. 

The cream and community support have confirmed what I told that nurse six months ago. I’m veeeeeeeeery comfortable with my situation…almost downright delirious.

(*Note: the idea for the skin disease came from Ted Dekker's Circle Series;  the medical name for it and the afflicted character are mine.)