Chapter 2: The Doctor’s Visit

I nearly died of discomfort attempting to put all of my attention on reading more about my condition. To be with me for the appointment, Mom had taken off work to take me to the pediatric dermatologist and a therapist for Friday afternoon. Looking out the window nearing the medical complex, I couldn’t take my mind off how uncomfortable I was. Mom reminded me she took me to see one of their doctors at this clinic years ago after I started kindergarten. The last thing I want is to take any clothes off, but considering how uncomfortable the skin irritation is, it is tempting. I hope the doctor will recommend new laundry and body soap to continue dressing like everyone else.

I recall back when I started school, some of those details with the school always sending me home early and the need to take nasty pills every day. From my earliest memory until the past week, the skin irritation from clothing has been tolerable, manifesting in only a slight rash. Nearly all my skin burned up, and I was downright miserable the whole ride.

I sought a sense of comfort from this painful thing Mom forced me to wear. As Mom pulled into the parking spot, I voiced how I felt physically and witnessed a look of horror that flashed across her face as I fumbled with the top button of my sweater. Quickly, I reassured her that I would remain clothed until I was with the doctor. I stepped out of the passenger side of Mom’s car and closed the door. Despite my overwhelming desire to remove my clothes, I resisted upon noticing a mother with her small children nearby.

The walk to the door, I got a stern look after fidgeting with the sweater button and stopped. The lobby’s cool air struck me, and I smiled at how good it felt. As soon as I adjusted to the temperature, I returned to my previous state of misery.

I sat in the waiting area in uncomfortable silence as I endured a miserable paradox of sensations. My fidgeting to get comfortable and pulling at the seams to cool off caused a lady with a small child to change their seat away.

The layers of clothing, meticulously chosen by my mother, served to amplify my discomfort. Adding to this sensory paradox, the air vent directly above me unleashed a torrent of cold air, further exacerbating my already increasingly urgent state. This fusion of opposing sensations intensified the tension in the air. A tangible symbol of the complex interplay between the external factors at play and the internal battle I was silently enduring. Each moment was a vivid reminder of this intricate and challenging dance of elements.

Through my agitated state of mind, I heard my name echo through the waiting area, piercing the tense silence. The nurse led me into the sterile exam room, and after getting my weight and height, the starkness of the spartan environment was palpable. I settled onto the exam table. As the nurse took my vitals, she noticed me sweating and how uncomfortable I looked and commented on my condition. My mind was more focused on shedding every fiber of my clothes.

Mom spoke for me and answered the nurse’s questions about the visit. It was embarrassing hearing about me standing before them in the nude last night. After the nurse left, Mom was aware of the emotional turmoil surrounding me and placed her hand on my leg, covered by the dress and full stockings. I remained silent, but I desperately wanted to be stripped bare at that moment.

To my horror, the specialist doctor who entered was a male doctor, Dr. Sabrine Morgan, whom I had never seen before. My mind was more on my discomfort in answering questions about my medical history. I told him after looking at the pain chart, my discomfort was a solid ten, and Mom did the rest of the talking. To my disappointment, he had me get up on the exam table fully dressed.

At this point, I didn’t care if this male doctor yanked off everything if it meant getting comfortable. I removed the sweater when he saw the redness around the wrists and commented on the irritation I felt and the coolness of the air on my exposed skin. Wanting to see my shoulders next, Mom unzipped the back of my dress and slid it off, removing my bra so he could see the skin under the straps.

My dress and bra gathered in a bunched-up pile of fabric at my waist, leaving me topless so the doctor could examine the redness and blistering around my torso. The doctor asked while looking at the nasty blisters at the base of my breast after he asked me to lie down, “So it began blistering?” I thought I could handle it with some ointment. The last thing I wanted to do was cave and do what I did and show my parents my rashes like I did, and it was embarrassing.

I sat back up while uneasy about being so exposed above the waist, while the rest of me was burning up. My mind was on being at Friday’s game with the hope that the doctor would prescribe me some pills and some cream. Listening to Mom explain my past medical history to the doctor, she said, “The doctors said it could be a fear of clothing.” I gave my mom a funny look. I said, “About that, the last thing I would be scared of is clothes.”

Mom said, “I hoped you would outgrow it or it wouldn’t get worse.”

I was shocked at the story that unfolded as Mom talked about my condition. The dermatologist prescribed pills and suggested creams, lotions, soaps, or detergents that would allow me to remain clothed. After the events of the previous evening, Mom was concerned I would have walked in here naked.

Mom then explained that she had checked on me in the middle of the night, noticed the redness of my skin, and removed the top covers from my bed. Mom’s last words increased my anxiety as the doctor left the room while I sat on the exam table half-naked. Mom’s presence was a silent pillar of strength, and my eyes mirrored the vulnerability I felt, a silent witness to the unfolding scenario. Her unspoken support was both a comfort and a reminder of my challenges. I was about to lie on the table when the nurse from earlier returned with three gowns made of different materials and a large bag for my clothes.

I was finally relieved to pull the clothes off and saw what the bag had on it, ‘Hazardous Waste.’ The nurse maintained a professional detachment, slipping my clothes into that bag with gloves. My mind was in overdrive as Mom helped me remove the remaining pieces of my clothes and handed them to the nurse. Taking a breath after finally getting the needed relief over my skin heightened my awareness that I was standing before the nurse naked.

Mom placed the three gowns on the exam table, and I grabbed the cloth one only to toss it down after trying it on. I felt covered in hot sauce that sent a burning sensation through my skin. I didn’t even get the second one up my arms before shoving it down, and the nurse said it was cotton. The last one I knew was all paper that I didn’t have the mindset of slipping on yet. I was very uneasy and felt defeated after pulling my naked butt down on the sheet of paper on the exam table to only jump into the air in discomfort.

It was like everything around me was out to make me miserable and force me to remain naked. I didn’t grasp what the nurse said to my mom while she was wiping down the table before I sat back down with no paper. Feeling defeated by the very clothes that defined me as a cheerleader, my anxiety peaked. Sitting completely naked on the exam table, I looked at my mom and wondered how I would be able to continue as the head cheerleader if I could wear body paint.

The clinical atmosphere is stark and impersonal, combined with the nurse’s lack of empathy. I felt depressed and anxious as the nurse sealed the bag containing my clothes and walked out of the room. The air was thick with tension, amplifying my anxiety of an already nerve-wracking situation. In this emotional turbulence, my mother’s silent support stood as a crucial anchor, her presence a steady force amidst the chaos of seeing my world fall apart.

I knew I was displaying a natural reaction when I covered my breasts with my arm as the male dermatologist entered the room. While I was no longer in such misery having all of the offending garments removed, I felt even more embarrassed when the doctor returned. However, his continued professionalism relaxed me, and I let my guard down a bit. He then asked me how I felt. I told him, “Physically, I feel much better, but the last thing I want is to be sitting here naked. When will I be able to wear clothes again?”

As the doctor continued the examination, he inquired about the progression of my condition while meticulously assessing the large rashes that seemed to blanket nearly every inch of my body. Testing various materials, it became apparent my skin reacted to a large percentage of textile materials. He asked Mom a series of probing questions about past diagnoses to find the root cause of my condition. He stated that my condition may be more than a fear of clothing —a condition I had denied but which was now laid bare.

It was an utterly mortifying experience, sitting there in that room, completely exposed, as I candidly expressed to the doctor the depths of my affliction. As the specialist continued, I felt nauseous when I heard what he told us about my wearing clothes again. The words that settled heavily upon the room were, “From what I see with how quickly your condition is progressing...”

The sentence hung in the air, a prelude to a revelation to further tip the scales of the world around me in an already delicate emotional balance. Each word echoed the gravity of my situation, underscoring the urgency and seriousness of what lay ahead. Not fully grasping what the doctor said, I focused on leaving the clinic without any clothes.

Then everything crashed with the casually dropped bombshell by the abruptness and the invasive nature of the request. I found my voice before I could censor it. “Seriously!?” I blurted out, my words echoing my disbelief and discomfort. The request, so casually made, felt like an intrusion, stripping away not just my clothes but a layer of my identity. At that moment, my frustration and disbelief were palpable. The doctor’s prescribed instructions about the clothes only intensified my condition.

The immediate removal of my clothes as hazardous to my health is necessary and will be collected as hazardous waste by a medical lab for study and final disposal. This unexpected request piled another layer of discomfort onto an already overwhelming experience. I asked, “How will I leave here since even the paper gown causes a reaction?

The casual demeanor of the staff left me momentarily speechless. My incredulous response pierced through the sterile atmosphere of the clinic, underscoring the stark contrast between the impersonal, clinical nature of the medical setting and the intensely personal, emotional reality I was grappling with. At that moment, the dissonance between the two worlds was more palpable than ever, highlighting the often-overlooked human element in medical procedures.

The directive hit me with a staggering impact, feeling like a physical blow. My stomach coiled into tight knots as a wave of nausea washed over me. At that moment, stripped of my usual armor of confidence, I found myself hesitating, acutely aware of my mother’s concerned gaze piercing through me. Though I understood the necessity, being in the presence of a medical professional did little to mitigate the sense of intrusion. It wasn’t just about removing my clothes; it felt like an unwelcome exposure. The act of undressing symbolized a betrayal by my attire, a stark revelation of my strange medical condition—textile contact dermatitis.

It wasn’t merely a physical act of disrobing, unraveling the emotional layers that I had meticulously built around myself. Moments laid bare the essence of my struggles, not just the condition that left me naked and vulnerable it entailed. Never before had I felt so raw, so exposed, so vulnerable. The request echoed beyond the confines of the clinical room, touching the core of my emotional being. Inhaling deeply felt like shedding a protective cloak, and with every piece of clothing, an unsettling blend of shame and discomfort coursed through me.

It was as though I was not only bearing my physical unveiling of the depths of my inner turmoil—laying bare the private struggles concealed beneath layers of fabric. The journey toward healing had just commenced, and armed with newfound determination, the hope that professional guidance could bring an end to the silent suffering that had defined me for far too long. However, my mind couldn’t escape the absence of clothing—taken by the assistant, it left me in the room with nothing to shield my vulnerability.

As I contemplated the path that lay ahead, the discomfort of physical exposure became entwined with the emotional vulnerability of confronting my condition. The stark reality of my vulnerability at that moment mirrored the complexities of the healing process—a journey that held the promise of both challenges and, hopefully, a resolution to the silent struggles I had endured. My curiosity got the best of me regarding my clothes, so I inquired, “Why did the nurse instruct me to put my clothing in that bag and then leave the room with it, leaving me here naked?”

The doctor glanced at my exposed form on the exam table and explained, “To effectively address the skin condition and eliminate all potential triggers,” the doctor began, “we start with a clean slate, so to speak.” The doctor continued, “It could be something as simple as an allergic reaction to laundry detergent or something more urgent.”

The doctor’s explanation shed light on the seemingly unusual protocol, emphasizing the necessity of eliminating potential triggers for the skin condition. Stripping down, literally and metaphorically, marked the initial steps in comprehending and addressing the skin condition. The vulnerability I experienced at that moment transformed into a deliberate and essential aspect of the diagnostic process, underscoring my dedication to unraveling the root causes of my struggles with clothing.