Walking through the winding corridors felt a bit like willingly walking into quick sand. Sign after sign, urging me to go further in, around more corners, down long passages, past door after door of people specialising in different things. Oh there’s my plastic surgeon. There’ s baby being cradled in his Moms arms in the Neurosurgeons office – how awful, don’t think about it, you can’t start crying already. The deeper in I got, the more I realised that I probably won’t be able to find my way out of there.
Finally at the Doctors office I proceeded to fill in my lifes details and wait, mind racing with all the possibilities of what she might have to say to me. I sat there, going over all the details that I needed to tell her, willing myself not to break down in tears and embarrass myself before I even said a word.
Then I was there, in the chair, rambling on and on about my history. “I was a pretty average teenager you know, just regular run of the mill pimples. So I went on the pill. It seemed to help but then by the time I got married it had started to make me crazy. I used to get so angry that I could feel the blood boiling under my skin. I was going crazy. So I went off and, well, we had a baby. My skin went freaking crazy. My gyne gave me some topical lotions and potions to put on and although it didn’t really work, after I had the baby my skin went back to normal. Until 3 months later when I was pregnant again. Yeah. I know. Then my skin when flipping ballistic. After that baby it started to stabilise again but after we had our third baby a couple of years later it went nuts and then NEVER went back to normal. Oh, yeah, that’s right, I have three babies. So then I went to a dermie, he have me more potions. They never worked. Then I changed my diet and then I went to a homeopath. And then I went on antibiotics. And then I cried. And then I went on Roaccutane for 28 weeks last year. But it’s back. Promising to be worse than before, and I just can’t anymore.”
Ah, there’s the tears.
After sitting on the table and exposing the red, raw and pimply skin, she looked at the cyst that was busy forming another ear underneath my current one and said, “There are so many routes that we could go. You’ve done all of them already. The last resort and the only one that we know will give you results is Roaccutane. Some people need to go on a second or third course, and genetically it seems that you are one of those people.”
Off I went to Pathcare, fighting back tears that were desperate to fall. Managed not to fully succumb to a full on break down while they took blood – just to test my liver function and to ensure that I was not already pregnant.
But by the time I got to the car the tears were falling thick and fast down my face. I ugly cried as I pulled out the parking spot and drove through the busy hospital parking lot. I’m sure those unfortunate enough to have witnessed it would have thought I had just visited a dying relative in hospital. But no. There I was, crying about my face and then crying that I’m silly enough to cry about my face.
Once we have the results of the blood test in the next few days, I’ll probably be given the go ahead to start 30mg of Roaccutane once a day for the next four months.
I feel queasy just thinking about it.