11 Year Old Girl Finds Cure for Eczema

I just watched a YouTube video by jdomakeup, who gives an update on her eczema.  At one point she describes how she put honey on her face and body and how it was so sticky and uncomfortable, but her mother wanted her to sleep like that.   Oh sweet eczema!


I remember the first time I tried my first eczema-be-gone remedy....


I am 11 years old and my last haircut was inspired by Liza Minnelli.  My aunt says it's cool.  It's not.  I have a library card and know how to use the microfiche. No one says this is cool.  It's not. My favourite shows are Little House on the Prairie and Three's Company.


During summer vacation, I ride my bike, in the morning,  to my swimming lesson. Right after, I ride my bike to the library and spend hours there.  Again, not cool.  I borrow so many books, my plastic bag is stretched transparent over the corners of them, threatening to spill the load onto the sidewalk.  I hook the bag of books over my right handle bar, and I lean way to the left to balance the bike.


I have eczema on the backs of my knees and inside my elbows. Eczema sucks and it's a definite factor of my uncoolness.  It's itchy, it's ugly and it hurts and no one else I know has it, except for my grandma, who has it on her ankles. My grandma also has a lip that looks sewn up the middle to under the tip of her nose, a dog bite-shaped hunk of flesh missing off her calf and teeth that she puts in a glass.  So that's no one  I know really, is it?


All I have to do is stop scratching to make it better.  But it's not easy!  Sometimes, it oozes and makes my pants stick to the back of my knees.  I don't care about wearing shorts. People always tell me how skinny I am anyway.  "You're so skinny, don't you eat?" Yes I eat.  McDonald's Happy Meals with milk.  I'm not allowed to get a Happy Meal, if I don't get milk.  And rice.  I like rice.  Plain with a little margarine.  Just like my spaghetti.  Now stop staring at me.


"Oh what's that rash?  Do you have a cream for that?  You shouldn't scratch it dear."  I'm shy, so I look down and just nod.  Besides, it's rude to answer to adults with, "It's eczema, dummy!  Of course I have cream for it.  My grandma sticks her finger in a small, brown, glass jar every day and rubs this cream so hard into my skin it feels like she's touching my bones inside.  And I don't scratch.  Not with my fingernails anyway. I'd get in trouble.  I rub the backs of my knees really hard through my pants.  The fabric is rough and it scratches my eczema-- not me-- stupid!"


I need to get rid of this eczema now.  I need to get rid of it before I'm old (23) because no one will marry me.  Skinny I can live with. Ladies always wanna be skinny.  I don't know what to do.  I can't stop scratching.  I've got it!  I walk casually into the kitchen and open the drawer that holds paper, pens, menus and the cure to end my eczema forever....


Plastic wrap. 


I grab the long, yellow box, peek around the corner, like Charlie's Angels do and run into the bathroom. I sit on the edge of the tub, roll up my pant legs, and smear the cream from the brown glass jar all over the backs of my knees.  Next, I wind the plastic wrap around my knees. Or try to.  Plastic wrap sticks to everything, including itself, except to what you want it to stick to.  Who the heck invented it?  It folds over on itself and clings to my fingers, but if I wrap 3 layers around my knees, I get decent coverage.


I roll my pants back down, put my ear up against the bathroom door, listening for spies.  All clear.  I run back to the kitchen, plastic wrap crunching with each step, and put my arsenal back in its place.  This is it.  It's going to work for sure.  I can feel it.  When I unwrap my knees, they'll be as smooth as the top of my feet. (I always admire how perfect this spot of skin is). 


I am such a child genius.  I'll probably win Science Fair this year.


After a while, the backs of my knees start to feel hot and sweaty.  I try not to think about it.  Great.  It's starting to itch.  Bad.  I try to tear off the plastic wrap, but I have too many layers of it around my knees.  So frantically, I roll the enemy wrap down my legs.  


There are two clear, sweaty plastic wrap O's staring up at me from the floor, as I scratch madly at my legs, fingers sliding from the built up sweat.  Anyway, Science Fair sucks.