It’s January 2017 and I’ve had enough of my eczema for what feels like the millionth time in my life. I trudge back to the doctors to demand another steroid cream, but this time it needs to be stronger than the last.
I have learned from the best – when I was little, my mother refused to leave the surgery when I until they handed over a steroid cream to treat the fiery rash all over her 18 month baby’s arms, legs, tummy, back and neck.
Surprise surprise, the doctor is reluctant to hand it over, telling me it’s important to ween myself off the strong stuff.
How else does she expect me to live in a constant itch? I ask myself, lathering my hands and neck in the thick cream later that night, smug.
