"The New Normal"

My, aren’t we all mighty sick of this phrase? For me, though, it has extra meaning. The 2020 lockdown has gone in almost perfect lockstep with my psoriatic story. Let me tell it. I began working from home the Wednesday before the national lockdown, back in March. Since we knew lockdown was inevitable, I began to clean my flat. “Make a separate work station!” was the prevailing wisdom, so I figured it would be a good chance to de-hoard the spare room and reclaim it. After a day of some progress and surprisingly little procrastination, I spotted a rash on my lower legs. It was a bit of a strange place, but I assumed I’d irritated it, or perhaps it was a bit of a dust allergy. Thought no more of it. The lockdown became official on Monday. I remember it well cos it was my birthday. My parents each rang me to wish me a happy-birthday-but-don’t-come-over, and I mentioned the rash. Maybe you should clean your flat more often! Maybe it’s because you’re getting older! Parents, eh? Well, I don’t need to tell you people what happened with that rash. Spoiler alert: it was psoriasis all along. But I didn’t get my diagnosis for some months. Because the rash progressed and turned into scabby, flaky patches, I spoke to my doctor. But of course they weren’t taking appointments in March, or April. So I got a phone appointment. “It’s probably fine,” he said. “Take some antihistamines and put some cream on it.” Reader, it got worse. And it spread to my everything. Eventually the doctors agreed to an appointment with webcam. Alas, my webcam phone is crummy. He couldn’t determine how bad it was. Because good grief was it bad. I was flaking everywhere, I wasn’t sleeping, the dryness was all consuming and shucking any moisture I put upon it. I didn’t get a face-to-face appointment until late May. Have you seen the scene from the second Lord of the Rings film, where Gandalf removes his robes in Théoden ‘s court to dazzling white? I reconstructed that scene with my hoodie and belly dandruff. Oh, but the doctor didn’t diagnose psoriasis then. He put me on antifungals and sent me on my way. Without relaying this blow-by-blow, it was discovered that I had an autoimmune reaction to some tablets that I started early March and it took until June to find this out. I’m now on different tablets, but that’s the thing about psoriasis: one you’ve had it, you can expect it for life. Though I didn’t hear that from the doctor, but… The point is, I’m returning to the world a different person. My routines have changed, my clothes don’t sit the same, and I’ve had to learn a whole lot of stuff about pain management. I trust my gut more and have become better at saying No. It’s amazing how effective “sorry but my skin is on fire” can be at getting you out of stuff. They say psoriasis can bring around depression, but I was depressed anyway, so what have I lost really? I’ve learned to find humour in things: like how after my last hospital appointment, I stopped for a sausage sandwich, and got brown sauce everywhere… and my palm was so dry it absorbed the sauce before I could wipe it off.... And it’s helped me to re-connect with people. I’ve had all sorts of people emerge from the woodwork when “came out” on social media with my skin problems. Both with respect to my guttates and potential arthritic issues (not diagnosed, but it’s one reason I was in hospital). And whilst I hope it abates, I’m living the experience as best I can. I don’t tan so much as turn into a tiger bread loaf. I drink comical amounts of water, so where my skin isn’t scabbed, it’s beautiful. And the sooner I can find someone to massage steroid creams into my shoulders, the better. But I guess some things even PPE can’t help us with!