20. Georgie #2
In the beginning, they never did anything but appear as angry, red bumps that hurt for days and went away and then came back two-fold, much worse, much bigger.
She thought maybe they were boils, something that typically came out in the summer and a common problem that ran in the women of the family.
She took me to doctors when the spots started coming out on my back as well, and they just told her it was bad acne brought on by puberty.
I was eight years old and had only had my period twice at that point because we were all early bloomers.
But the fact that I was getting bad acne in a place that wasn’t a typical acne-ridden area for someone so young?
My mom refused to stop, she kept fighting for me.
She took me to countless doctors over the next two years, pleading with them to help me.
But no one knew what to do. Slews of antibiotics, hormone-altering medications, creams, ointments, trying to lose weight even though at the time I was fairly thin for my age.
You name it, I tried it and saw no progression.
It wasn’t until I was referred to a dermatologist at ten years old that I was diagnosed with HS.
I sound it out phonetically for him because his eyes widen in confusion at the first mention of it.
Hi-drad-uh-NIE-tis soo-pur-ah-TEE-vah. Try and say that five times fast.
I try to tell him everything I can about the illness without overwhelming him.
But how can you not be? I tell him that I have been chronically ill for longer in my life than I’ve been healthy.
That I missed out on a social life at school due to treatments that required me to drive hours away from home every few weeks, requiring needles.
Lots of needles. IVs, injections in my stomach every week, every month.
These treatments caused me to gain weight that I couldn’t get rid of, weight that people blamed on eating, though I wasn’t eating like they thought I was and fuck them for thinking that in the first place.
They didn’t know anything I tried, everything that failed.
That I had had more surgeries than I could count at this point.
The hospital stays when flares like the one he just witnessed didn’t go away on their own.
Times when my body would send itself into septic shock.
I tell him about the pain, about the fact that doctors don’t believe the pain is real, they don’t feel like it’s worth sending me to pain management, they tell me it’s something I will just have to endure for the rest of my life.
I tell him about my ways of coping, about these debilitating days that make it hard to feel as semi-normal as I can.
That this may only get worse because of my drug resistance to essentially every treatment I have tried.
I talk of the scars that are not going anywhere, ones I was ashamed of and afraid of showing or sharing my story to the people in my past, and that was ultimately the reason why I have been single for so long.
That I’ve learned to love my body for what it is, to feel beautiful in my skin even if it’s not the traditional standard of beauty.
I take a deep breath, I meet his eyes, and I show him the scars, my thighs and underarm surgery scars, keeping myself mostly covered by the towel.
I tell him of the more hidden, private scars in the creases of my legs, show him the pockmarks of my back from old HS spots that scarred and went away after so, so, so many rounds of steroid injections.
The whole time he holds my hand, rubbing his thumb across the back of my hand and doesn’t let go.
“The reason I am telling this to you is because I really like you. More than I’ve liked anyone in a very long time. Call it what you will, fate, destiny—”
“An elevator,” He supplies in the same tone, trying to make light. It works.
I smile, “Yes, that damn tin death trap. Whatever it was, it brought us together. And while I don’t want to lose this, the potential of whatever this can be, I also know that being with someone who is chronically ill is not for everyone.
Sometimes… Sometimes a person doesn’t mean to, but they grow to resent the person who is ill in the relationship.
I’ve lived that once. I never want that again.
I need to know what you’re thinking, if you have any questions, and if you’re still interested.
With that in mind, you have to tell me if you ever start having doubts or—”
“Georgie,” He stops me and kisses my hand, “Tell me something good?”
His words, four simple words, the words that started it all for us…
They are almost as good as the three golden words everyone wants to hear.
He doesn’t care that I have scars, that I am not perfect.
He wants this, he wants me, and I have never wanted something so much or been so terrified in all my life.
“I really like you,” I tell him, watching him beam.
“I really like you, Georgie.”
“I am really scared,”
“I know. Me too.” He agrees.
“I am really cold.” I shiver, making him laugh.
“Get dressed, silly.”
“But most of all?” I say, scooting closer to him and then closer still.
“Yes?” His eyes watch me with fascination, a light in his eyes that outshines the stars.
I press my forehead, my nose, my lips to his gently in a smile, “I really want to kiss you,”
“I really want you to do that,” His voice has gone airy, his hands touching my sides, gripping the towel like he never wants to let go. I kiss him, he kisses me, and everything slips away until it’s only us in the universe.