The Itch
I have been sidelined by one of the most unpleasant beasts of infection I have ever encountered. I am special (I suppose) in that I tend to catch what others shake off in a week or so and then fight it for weeks or months longer than anyone would think it possible for the invaders to linger.
This time, the culprit appears to be Jock Itch, an infection by dermatophytes, the microscopic tinea cruris, a real jerk of a fungus. This started well over a year ago, when my partner (who is prone to athlete’s foot) had his shirt off and I saw a strange red line peeking out from beneath his underarm. Upon investigation, we found the telltale shape of ringworm. It took several weeks and daily applications of cream to kill off the problem. He found and treated a small patch he suspected around his groin. All was well.
Then, weeks later, I began to itch. I described this very specific itchiness to him and he confirmed that it was the same feeling that accompanied his past history with jock itch. The itch is like nothing I’ve ever encountered. It is like a needle of irritation, straight down deep into the tissue. I can pinpoint the spot to the millimeter where it is biting me. I have strange bumps and intense, prolonged itching. It wakes me up, it is so powerful.
I could count on one hand (if I wasn’t so busy scratching with it) the number of people I’ve seen clawing at themselves in public, but if The Itch began while I was out–and thankfully it hasn’t–I’d have no choice. It takes over. Treatments only occasionally make it stop. Mind over matter only lasts for so long. I have fought for over an hour at a time not to scratch, but the sensation is unrelenting.
Nothing that works for regular people is helping me at all. I have explored home cures (from garlic to peroxide sprays to Epsom Salts), a wide range of sprays, ointments and creams–every -azole on earth has been slathered on my undercarriage. They burn like hellfire, make me shriek and dance from pain, but haven’t killed off the fungus.
I blow dry the region after showers, exchange sheets and towels like clockwork, my socks and underwear do not touch. I try to never touch myself and practice even more stringent handwashing and hygiene than normal–no small feat, if you know how I am on a normal day.
Exercise and the accompanying sweating and friction are supposed to make the rash worse. Trust me, at this point, I’m not doing anything that will anger this thing. It already sends me into routine spasms of scratching. I can’t help it, even when I can feel that the skin is gone and that the action isn’t helping alleviate the sensation. I’m bruised from scratching. It is maddening. And I have suffered through many levels of itchy hells in my life.
This all began MONTHS ago for me–well before Thanksgiving–and I have gone without sex (at all), without sleep (many nights) and without relief day after day. My partner repeatedly assured me that it took him longer than the two weeks most labels suggest to murder off his fungus.
As a starving, uninsured freelance writer and a person who has had few good experiences with the medical establishment, I have been reluctant to see a doctor. When I finally caved and called a professional, I explained that I have an infection and was told I’d have to wait A MONTH for an appointment. Really? And we have the best health care system in the world?? I steeled myself for the wait like the good Buddhist I am, listened to the passage from The Middle Length Discourses of the Buddha, and added this to my list of Things to Endure. I figure that in a few more weeks, I’ll either be cured or willing to pants myself in the waiting room if it will get me help.
Most people would probably shy away from discussing such a problem, but we are all human and suffer these same issues. My partner and I are not dirty people. It is a common infection. And damn it, someone ought to be talking about it.