Nom de Plume

Normally, I don’t write about really personal things. I mean sure, I talk about Steve and Harry, and post pictures of the house and all that–but I tend not to write about work, or very personal issues.. So this post is an exception, and you are forewarned that it’s personal and also very long. I’m still a little freaked out, but it’s a more controlled freak out because I know exactly what is going on, and have a clear course of action.

A couple of months ago, I was shaving my, uh, nether regions, and noticed there were some white patches of skin. I thought it was really weird, but I was super busy work-wise, and I meant to look it up, but didn’t. Then, two weeks ago, I was running out to a client meeting. While I was brushing my teeth, I couldn’t remember if I had put on deodorant, so I raised my arms to check in the mirror. “Wow,” I thought. “I put on way too much!” Rubbed the white patches and they didn’t come off.

I got in a car and called Steve in total freak out mode. He interrupted me when I started telling him about the nether region patches. “Oh you’ve had those forever. You have some under your arms too.”

“Were you planning on telling me this?” I asked. “How long have they been there?”

“I just figured it was another one of your skin weirdnesses and didn’t want to get you all paranoid.” Much as it pains me to admit, he’s right on both accounts: 1) I have weird skin stuff; and 2) I am a complete hypochondriac. So when I got home, I made an appointment with the dermatologist. For the record, on the question of how long they’ve been there, he wavers between “since we’ve been together” and six months. Typical guy.

But then I noticed a patch on my face.

It wasn’t white–but it was definitely paler. Is it my imagination? Is it really there? Is it exactly like the other patches, or could it be something else? What about that red circle around it? And those bumps? So I started in on the Internet research.

I’m good at research. I love research. And I’m also on the computer all day long. At home. Alone. Where I have ample opportunity to imagine the worst. Before long, I was convinced I had both vitiligo and lichen scleroma, but was hoping that it was systemic tinea versicolor–not that the systemic part exists, but one can still hope, right? And my doctor’s appointment was still two weeks off. Then, I met Steve up in Victoria and we spent the day walking around in the sun. The next day, in a client meeting, I excused myself to go to the bathroom and while washing my hands started fixating on the light patch on my cheek.

And then I noticed that the areas above my eyebrows were sunburned.

“Of course, they’re redder,” scoffed Steve in an attempt to comfort me. “They stick out more.” The countdown to my doctor’s appointment began in earnest.

Still hoping that it was tinea versicolor, I started applying an antifungal lotion on my face. They just kept appearing. I hoped against hope that it was the versicolor thing, but I knew different. It was vitiligo.

I was bordering on hysterical. In the course of the next week, I went through all the stages of grieving–including acceptance once I realized that pretty much anything can be covered by makeup. And there’s specific makeup for this. The fact is, I spend less time on makeup than any other American woman alive, so who cares if I need 10 extra minutes every morning.

Meanwhile, I missed my hair appointment and my grays kept on growing in grayer. (I’ve been going gray since I was 25; my grandmother was completely gray when she was 35.) I was examining my head in the mirror, and noticed a patch of white. And then it seemed to me that my hair was thinning. Like seriously thinning. Alopecia (I had a bout of alopecia areata my early 20s) and vitiligo can go hand in hand. Never mind that Steve insists it’s been like that forever. Now there’s more Internet research. And there’s more hysteria.

So in other words, the last two and a half weeks have been absolutely terrible. I haven’t been able to concentrate on anything. I had my appointment this morning. “I didn’t shave my armpits,” I explained, “so you could see that some of the hair is growing in white.” I didn’t even have my shirt off when her ears perked up at the mention of white and she said the dreaded word: “Vitiligo.”

I knew it.

But all is not lost. It’s all over my face–but it’s also early in the game (which means it’s just paler–you can only really see it up close). There are treatments. So we’re starting with Protopic, and she seems to think that repigmentation is more than likely. There are other, more aggressive treatments if the Protopic doesn’t work. And there’s always makeup. After the past couple of weeks, just knowing for sure makes a huge difference.

And there’s nothing wrong with my hair, except for the fact that I’m 33, not 23.