I seem to be decomposing, and I’m not even dead yet. Bummer.
Yesterday before physical therapy , I went through the paces of my morning ablutions and everything was fine. I still have this seborrheic dermatitis growing on the right side of my head. I generally wait until the scab is about ready to fall off… or turn into a unilateral devil’s horn… before peeling it off so it can grow over again. I have something else growing on the left side of the fold between my nose and face… it feels like a blackhead, but it’s a little protrusion of skin. I scrape off the tip every few days.
But everything else? Fine. Used the same soap I always use, used the same deodorant I always use. No Problemo, Amigo!
This morning, I hop into the shower (figuratively… if I actually “hopped” into anything, I’d be blogging from the broken hip ward at Howard County General Hospital ) and begin the laborious process of scraping off the day’s accumulated filth. As I’m washing my right armpit, I noticed a stinging sensation. Felt for bumps. Nothin’. So back to work with the cleaning process that, were you to witness it, would remind you of the way they hose down and scrub bull elephant seals in the zoo.
I dry myself, hop out of the shower (again, figuratively) and apply the pre-shave lotion to my face. I give my perfunctory sniff to the underarms . Lefty, OK! Righty, whew! Still a bit on the funky side. So, I grab the deodorant and first do Lefty, then Righty, and …
THERE IS A HUGE RASH UNDER MY RIGHT ARM THAT WASN’T THERE YESTERDAY, OR EVEN LAST NIGHT!!!
So obviously, I am either undead, or still alive but decomposing.
Beats the hell out of me what it is. We put some Gold Bond ointment and powder on it. I have a washcloth secured around my neck with a shoestring stuffed into the armpit. (That worked to keep the skin from breaking down back in 1998 when I had right rotator cuff surgery and there was no way to get in there without making me cry.)
So, we’ll take another peek at it tonight at bedtime. If I can see the workings of the ball and socket joint of my shoulder, then we’ll know it’s time to call the doctor.
But in the meantime, just add it to the list of funky crap that happens to a poor boy with Parkinson’s disease.