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When I was 8, roses began to bloom all over my body and face. Had I lived in medieval times, I would have been banished from the village as an unclean pariah.

They were not roses, but it took years before I learned the proper diagnosis - psoriasis. And with that fateful verdict, a lifelong love/hate battle between me and my body was born.

My condition resembled roses in appearance, except these roses covered my entire body.

Psoriasis is an ugly condition. It is red, flaking, peeling patches of skin. It is wearing long sleeves and pants during summer heat waves. It is stares and questions from strangers.

But most of all, it is shame and embarrassment.

As a child I never felt the summer breeze on my legs or arms. I could only scratch at my scaling patches and wish for clear, clean skin. I hoped that puberty would make it go away.

It did not.

Friends moaned over their acne, but I had no sympathy. They were lucky. Their condition was temporary and acceptable.

As an adult I did my research and found out that psoriasis is an autoimmune condition. Stress is one of the factors in outbreaks. It's easy to be stressed when on a good day I look like a cheese grater has attacked me, leaving raw, ugly patches over my body.

Occasionally, I would have clear periods. The longest and best was when I was pregnant. But I could not stay pregnant forever. My daughter arrived and my psoriasis returned with a vengeance.

There are many cures and remedies. I tried lotions, creams, light treatments, tars, medications, vitamin regimens and special baths.

I drove two hours every day in the winter to attend a clinic with my fellow sufferers to gain temporary relief. I would take a coal tar bath and then stand under an ultraviolet light.

This combination would make my roses fade for a while, but once the treatments stopped they inevitably blossomed once again.

My dermatologist stopped prescribing a spray because it contained a steroid banned in Canada. But I continued to use mine until it was gone.

I tried a medicine so toxic that my liver function had to be monitored, and I was nauseous every day that I used it. I considered it a success, though, because it cleared my skin. Unfortunately, in a few months, the roses returned in their full glory and I didn't have the courage to risk my liver again.

I tried some of the non-mainstream cures - an all-white-turkey-meat diet, almond oil, tea tree oil, olive oil baths. I even considered going to the Middle East because bathing in the Dead Sea is a reputed cure.

A friend recommended rolling naked in the moss growing on his land. I am still giving that one serious thought.

But in the end, all these measures were temporary. Once treatment stopped, the enemy would return.

After 40 years, though, my psoriasis and I have come to an understanding. It is here to stay and I have accepted it as part of me. I don't hide it any more and I don't flaunt it. It just is.

I explain my condition to anyone who inquires politely. The person who asked if I had leprosy got no response.

One person remarked that I had the worst case of poison ivy he had ever seen and I happily agreed with him. I would love for it to be something as simple as that, something that would go away.

When I see someone else wearing their condition openly we chat about the latest cures. But sadly we are few and far between. Psoriasis affects a great number of people and most of them still cover and hide.

It's just easier that way.

It's what's inside that counts, I know. I've heard it all before. But that is an empty sentiment. I know all the clichés - beauty is skin deep, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Believe me, it's more than skin deep when your skin literally aches and you consider scraping it off with a knife.

All I know is that I would give five years off my life to be able to walk out the door in the summer sunshine in short sleeves or a sundress and know that no one will ask me why roses are blooming all over my flesh.

Gail J. Marshall lives

in Arnprior, Ont.