Love is Blind

Your first question, perhaps, is where have I been? Read on . . .

After a wonderful Christmas with Tim--just the two of us for the first time since I’ve been living in England--starting with a sumptuous meal and then a quiet evening together followed by friends for Boxing Day and then a delightful trip to the Isle of Wight with Tim’s mum that included celebrating New Year’s eve with friends Mark and Kim, well, it all went a bit downhill from there.

A few days after Christmas, I started having a minor bit of swelling under my left eye. A cold compress alleviated some of the swelling, and a bit of make up disguised the rest well enough for me to carry on my usual work and social activities.

When it first happened I was trying to figure out the cause—and thought perhaps that it was due to the feast of excess over the holidays—roast dinners every night, some which included rich Christmas pudding and cheeses, and of course more wine than I would normally drink. But that over-the-top wining and dining was short-lived; by New Year’s Day I was back to a relatively healthy lifestyle of balanced meals more Mediterranean than the English meat and two veg, and a more normal routine overall.

Returning to the routine, though, didn’t seem to matter; a week later both of my eyes were swollen, so much so that I didn’t recognise myself from the nose up. More cold compresses and this time a trip to the GP, who suggested an over-the-counter antihistamine to relieve the swelling, and a bit of the wait and see (which I find is the NHS way of dealing with issues that don’t appear to be life-threatening). Well, it didn’t help much to give it a few more days, and I returned to the GP office and saw a different doctor who entertained my suggestion that perhaps I was still reeling from too much animal protein—hey, why not? He tested my proteins—normal.  A stronger dose of antihistamines as well as a course of antibiotics was prescribed, my skin cracking on my face and leaving me known to infection. I was sent home to recover.

And I did, just a bit, though the swelling had moved to the bottom of my face and I was looking a bit Godfather-ish. Not a good look on a woman, I might add. My skin was quite dry and tight, and shortly after I felt I was improving all hell broke loose on my face. I was devastated. I cried. Just a little. I asked Tim to take me to the A&E. At Homerton Hospital I saw a lovely gentleman who suggested that I should visit Moorfield’s Eye Hospital immediately to be 100% certain it was not something wrong with my eyes that was causing the swelling. The first A&E leg took about two hours; the Moorfield’s Eye Hospital visit immediately after was another three. On a Saturday night. Poor Tim!

Moorfields’ specialists concluded that it was not my eyes and perhaps a contact allergy . . . but there was nothing new I’d tried, so it didn’t make sense. Nonetheless I was given stronger antihistamines and sent home to let it all calm down. Including me. I did, actually; there’s something of a relief knowing that you’ve seen a doctor and you have some meds.

Once again I saw progress in a few days. And then the inflammation happened again. I now resembled an embarrassed Michelin Man, with my face swollen and inflamed. I did apply some cream to my face—a prescription—but it stung and I wiped it off immediately.

And I cried, for the second time, over my situation. I felt truly helpless and just wanted it to be over with, and here I was, once again looking positively ghastly when the day before I was nearly normal. I told Tim I needed to return to the Homerton A&E. Another Saturday night, coincidentally, though early enough before the emergency could get too ugly with London’s casualties of pub brawls, domestic squabbles, and the occasional accident. It was busy, and we did wait over an hour to be seen by a consulting nurse who took the details and made an assessment to send me to the urgent care team, as it was a shorter queue and I was swelling more by the minute. A GP looked at me, frowned a bit at my swollen self and then smiled and asked what had happened. The story is retold. I tell the GP that I cried while waiting to see him; I’m not sure why I told him, but he said he understood. I had to laugh when I showed him the cream I’d used earlier that day, prescribed by one of the GPs in my local surgery for when my face felt dry and irritated; he looked at the tube, said “NO, NO, NO” and I believe tossed it in the trash. Fortunately it had only cost me a few quid.

This doctor prescribed an oral steroid to bring down the swelling, suggested I keep on the antihistamines and in fact add a second over-the-counter version to the mix, and recommended an aqueous cream to keep my face from becoming so dry and tight to react so severely. He explained that the first inflammation can seem almost mild, and that subsequent ones are usually more severe. Yep.

Another few days and slow progress . . . and hope. I travelled back to my GP, who had all my A&E notes, and suggested that perhaps I could see a dermatologist. She examined my face, which was still a bit inflamed around the eyes, and suggested instead that I give it another week and see if my face calms down and, possibly, the swelling completely goes away. I prod her with a name of a dermatologist; she still wants to wait  the week and prescribes a different cream that is thicker and is a better moisture lock for my face to heal, and also gives me a topical steroid for the angry red patches under my eyes, primarily my left one where it all started. I make an appointment for a week later.

And I am confident enough to take a lovely weekend journey with Tim to Brussels to see the Belgian contingent. What a wonderful weekend we had spending time with the kids, enjoying a delicious dinner at home with fabulous food, wine, and conversation, taking a trip to the Magritte museum, and enjoying each other’s company; it felt comfortable, easy. I garnered a fantastic salt shaker in the shape of a lighthouse from the restaurant Leon that will no doubt be a talking piece on the Isle of Wight. It was a chilly weekend—it even snowed as we wandered around Brussels Grand Place—but it didn’t matter much, and I was happy to get outdoors and spend time with family.

Upon my return I re-visit the GP. I am determined to leave the office with a referral, and I do, but I am also told that the NHS wait to see a dermatologist is 2-3 months. I ask her to repeat that last bit. Yes, likely three months.

I am one of the fortunate who has private insurance through work, and so I give them a call instead of waiting for the NHS to ring me, and provide the insurer the name of the dermatologist I want to see, recommended from Tim’s mum. He’s on their list, thankfully, and they remind me that my excess (aka deductible before the insurer starts paying a dime) is £100. I don’t blink; it’s well worth it. I call the doctor’s office at the London independent hospital and get an appointment—for just five days later. A far cry from the wait going through the free NHS service!

Dr Cerio is lovely. I ask if Tim can join me in the consultation, as he’s lived with all of this for the last several weeks, and Dr Cerio says fine; he adds that it’s usually the wife who interrupts the husband so not a problem here as it’s me who’s the patient and not Tim. We go through the story; I show him the photos I took of myself each day from the first time both my eyes were swollen. He tells me they are quite helpful, and pulls out his own set of pictures; I agree, yes, that looks familiar. OK, allergy; but to what?

I give enough blood to go be tested for the whole lot—airborne, food, and contact allergies. I ask if I can start wearing contact lenses again, as my eyesight is not optimal in my glasses which are now three years old and only worn occasionally. He says yes. I ask if I can wear make up as I’ve been using the same stuff for ages and never had a problem; he says yes, adding “you know it’s not the make up” which makes me laugh. It has been such a difficult journey that I’m literally scared to put anything on or near my face, but I trust that he is right. He suggests I put a bit of the make up on another area of my body, near my wrist, to see if I react, and if I don’t to go ahead and use it. I leave happy if not a bit drained of some blood and buy Tim a nice pub lunch at Paternoster Square looking toward St Paul’s Cathedral. What a trouper Tim has been! Another Saturday in yet another hospital, only this time at a decent hour and without all the swelling and tears. Amen.

I try my contact lenses on Sunday. No reaction, and I’m pleased; I will wear them on Monday to work. And I do. I patch-test my make-up; no reaction. I live it up on Monday and put a bit on, and a tiny bit of powder blush, a hint of mascara. I am starting to feel like myself again—I recognise the woman in the mirror.

Until Tuesday. I am fine in the morning, though by midday I see my left eye looks a bit irritated. It gets worse. I head home and look in the mirror—both eyes have swelling just coming up, and are angry red. 

Relapse.

I wash my face with water, apply a cool compress briefly to my eyes, slather on the Epaderm cream to lock in moisture, and at 8:30 pm, crawl under the covers in bed. I am disheartened. I don’t know what’s going on, and I fear that by the time I wake up in the morning there will be more swelling, despite the antihistamine tablet I take each night, the highest dose reasonably allowed.

Tim has spent the evening at a dinner at Lincoln’s Inn, and when he comes through the door and cheerily yells hello I respond with a mournful whine. He comes upstairs immediately to look at my condition and offer comfort. I try not to be stupid and cry, but I do anyway, if just a little.

I am slightly relieved on waking up the next day that the swelling and redness haven’t gotten any worse, only it also hasn’t improved. I have three important meetings—one a presentation which I ask my colleague to lead while I relegate myself to note-taker, one a visit to the school I volunteer at to pick up an important form, and one a working session with a colleague who is travelling in from a different office especially for the meeting. I decide I am ugly but not unwell, and head in. By midday I realise the rest of what I need to accomplish that day can be done from the comfort of my own living room, and because I was just slightly itchy about my face I decided to pack my rucksack and hop the 341 to N5.

Improving. Again. Still. I will get the results of my blood tests in another week’s time. I will not go back to wearing contact lenses or makeup, at least not until the day before I visit Dr Cerio again just in case there’s another setback. It probably wasn’t the cause of the relapse, but I’m done with taking chances.

Tim and I joke that it’s probably dust mites and we’ll have to pull up all the carpets and move the clothes out of the bedroom and change a few other things around the house. It is pollen season, and perhaps I’ve acquired an allergy to tree pollen, or something else airborne. I’m heartened knowing that I will have an answer, if not a solution, to all this madness, before the month is out.

I am a little proud of myself in some ways—while I did stay home for close to two weeks while my face morphed back from unrecognisable to just a little puffy and red, I have become, because of this, a bit less vain about how I look. My colleagues don’t seem to care—I had one lovely woman say to me today that if I hadn’t told her she’d have not even noticed, and she’s been in recent training sessions with me so has seen me earlier this year before it all went a bit puffy. My routine in the morning has become blissfully simple, and I have more time in the morning to fold the clothes that were left drying overnight or empty the dishwasher or gather the tea cups and glasses from the night before left behind in different rooms.

I do think that when all is said and done I’ll go back to a bit of glamming up—a safe, hypoallergenic mascara, perhaps a bit of blush and most certainly a bit of colour for my lips. But there’s something to be said for keeping it simple. I’m probably spending more money than is necessary for the latest anti-wrinkle cream; the E45 cream is doing a nice enough job and perhaps I can learn to love my wrinkles!

And Tim, well, what can I say? Each morning he greets me with a smile and says I’m looking better, and each night he says he hopes I’m better tomorrow. He has held my hand, wiped my tears, kissed my unswollen forehead even when I looked my most ghastly, and escorted me to numerous doctors and hospitals without a single complaint. He bought me a dozen roses for Valentine’s Day, and a lovely card—even though we send no Hallmark Holiday exchanges.

So, as I write this on Valentine’s Day evening, on the train on the way to Cowes to spend a weekend by the sea and relax, I thank Tim for his love, his compassion, and his kind words through what has not been an easy journey for either of us.

Love is blind, truly, and for that I am ever grateful!