Itchy Scratchy …

itchy

Growing up in my family, you were not allowed to have allergies.  They were simply forbidden.  If any of us showed any signs of them, they were dismissed, ‘Don’t be silly darling’; ignored, ‘No, nothing there at all’; or forgotten about ‘Really?  Did that really happen last time?  Surely not.’  Every time I had a cold, my mother would slather my chest in Vicks Vapour Rub and wipe the remnants under my nose for good measure prior to tucking me up for the night.  Every morning that followed, I would present her with the red angry chest rash and crimson stripe across my top lip:

‘Goodness darling!  How strange this hasn’t happened before?’

Sure enough, next time I had a cold, exactly the same routine would be followed with the addition in later years of me claiming allergies.  Not that it did me much good.  Fortunately, we were all fairly robust and my particular brand of allergies are generally only a problem in hospitals.  Which I had the good sense to mostly avoid as a child.  And they have got steadily worse as I have aged.  Which is annoying.  And I appear to have lost all childhood sense too.

Since I reacted to the dressing used for the Sentinel Node Biopsy, my underarm skin is very sore.  I have also had problems with the dressing used when Surgical Spice drained my seroma.  Both these dressing were ones I used to be ok with.  I now do not know what to suggest.  One of my very clever medical friends has suggested I ask for a referral to an allergy expert and/or a tissue viability nurse as the All Singing All Dancing Breast Unit will have access to both of these.  They are bound to know a LOT more than me and may just be able to suggest something.  Here’s hoping they can do in time for Monday!  Nothing like cutting it fine, is there?

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