Melissa Kite’s Real life
After three hours waiting, I am taken into a cubicle to be told by Nurse Ratched that there is nothing she can do. ‘Dermatology is not an emergency,’ she says sadistically, as I sit scratching myself into small pieces in front of her.
‘If I cut my hands off to stop them itching will that make it an emergency?’ I ask.
‘You’re very agitated,’ she says, with a scheming look. She intimates that she can probably have me committed to a secure mental ward if I continue to demand treatment from the NHS on a Saturday. So I leave. It’s time for the private sector.
I phone my celebrity dietician friend and he tells me to get myself to the Princess Grace near Harley Street. It has a private A&E, which is worth visiting if only to infuriate one’s socialist friends.
Within seconds of arriving I’m being treated by a handsome young doctor who diagnoses the precise form of eczema I have by phoning the consultant at home. He then dispenses the goods. ‘Steroids can make you feel euphoric,’ he says, with a reassuringly public school swagger.
A few seconds after swallowing the pills I start to giggle. I feel a huge surge of relief and wellbeing. I tell the doctor but he says it is unlikely the steroids have kicked in that quickly. ‘Is it possible I’m feeling euphoric from the instant private medicine?’ I ask.
He nods. That is a very common reaction, he confirms. After settling the bill — an unbelievably cheap £100 — I gambol out into the street. I want to kiss the man who holds open the door, I want to kiss the man I bump into as I go through the door, I want to kiss the old lady I encounter on the ramp. This actually might be the steroids.
Two days later, however, the high evaporates in the consulting room of the dermatologist as he tells me the long-term prognosis. They can’t cure eczema, but they can manage it. He writes out a prescription for pills, ointments and washing materials. There are more steroids, which come with a little blue card I have to carry in my purse which says ‘I’m all over the shop! Don’t let me near anything with a switch!’ or words to that effect. There is also a super-strong antihistamine to make me sleep at night.
I am now descending into a farcical place from which I fear there may be no return. I spend the day itching, then I lie awake all night itching, then I get up thinking, ‘Oh good, another day of itching.’ Unless I take the strong antihistamine. In which case I sleep for a bit then half wake up itching but, being unable to rouse my muscles out of their drug-induced stupor, I can’t scratch properly so I just lie there flapping my hands about like a platypus under water.
But the most annoying thing about eczema is that as soon as I tell someone I have it they reveal themselves to be an expert on it. Everyone has a different favourite cream or Chinese doctor. And if they haven’t had it themselves, they know someone who has. ‘Oh my wife’s sister’s gardener’s daughter’s gym teacher has eczema,’ they say, before telling you which acupuncturist she uses.
Please, I cannot take one more well-meaning dietary suggestion. I do not wish to receive another tip about the best kind of cortisone. I have a burgeoning collection of pharmaceuticals that is taking over my house. In my bathroom, the Clarins and Estée Lauder have been swept off the shelves to make way for pump action tubs of gunk called Double Base. The place looks like a petrochemical factory.
There must be a better way to suffer from a skin disorder. Surely there is a gap in the market for some luxury eczema relief. Somebody has to bring some style and panache to this depressing business.
To that end, I’m thinking of setting up a bespoke mail order service called World of Eczema, or possibly Simply Dermatitis, to sell all the high end products I have been unable to obtain. Like a contraption to attach to your bed to hang your arms in at night so they are suspended with the fingers pointing upwards for maximum relief. I shall call this the Ecze-Sling.
I also intend to design and market a duvet with a square cut out of it near the bottom so that you can poke your feet through and mount them uncovered on cushions to keep them cool, while still keeping the rest of your body warm. I shall call this the Derma-Duvet.
And for the discerning itcher — a range of dermatological horse-riding products. I feel I’m just scratching the surface.
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