Her body was itching relentlessly, red patches spreading across her skin like wildfire. At first, I assumed it was just an allergy—maybe a reaction to a new laundry detergent, a different body wash, or something she had eaten without realizing it. It didn’t seem serious. Annoying, yes. Uncomfortable, definitely. But dangerous? That thought never crossed my mind.
We tried everything at home. Antihistamines from the pharmacy. Oatmeal baths. Cooling gels. I switched detergents, rewashing all her clothes and bedsheets just in case. For a day or two, it would seem to calm down slightly, and I would convince myself we were on the right track. Then it would flare up again, angrier than before. The itching became relentless. She scratched until her skin turned raw, waking up in the middle of the night in tears because she couldn’t get relief.
Sleep became impossible—for her and for me. I would sit at the edge of the bed, gently holding her hands to stop her from scratching, whispering that it would pass. But deep down, a quiet fear had started to grow. This didn’t feel like a simple allergy anymore.
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