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 dermatitis1.
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.
A sense of concern flickered across our faces, and the doctor continued, “Your daughter will need to return to school and participate in after-school activities without any fabric enclosing her skin. To put it differently, you’ll need to explore alternative educational paths given the diagnosis of my findings if she is not allowed to return to the public school.” My body trembled, and tears welled up as I grappled with the world crashing down around me. I imagined my whole experience being the head cheerleader slipping through my fingers.
The doctor’s words carried a seismic impact, shattering the normal school expectations experienced thus far. The weight of the diagnosis and its implications for my daily life felt overwhelming, and the tears that welled up were a testament to the profound sense of loss and uncertainty in that moment. The journey toward understanding my condition took an unexpected turn, revealing challenges that extended beyond the confines of the doctor’s office and into the broader aspects of my life, particularly my education.
While the doctor continued to discuss my fate with my mother, I felt engulfed in a sea of embarrassment at the thought of being exposed amidst a crowd of students without a single garment on. I envisioned the mortification of everyone around me, their ridicule amplifying every perceived flaw on my body, transforming me into nothing more than a laughingstock on display within the school. The weight of that dreaded scenario bore down heavily on my shoulders.
As I lifted my gaze, I realized the doctor had reentered the room, and my mom was holding my hand, offering solace. I surveyed the surroundings, acutely aware of the coolness of the floor beneath my feet, desperately searching for clothing to shield myself from the imagined judgment of a community I feared would view me as a spectacle rather than a person.
In a soothing tone, Mom explained, “The doctor emphasized that it’s crucial for recovery. They want to create an environment that helps you, eliminating potential triggers as a necessary step.” The revelation about the necessity of shedding clothing as part of the recovery process left me frozen next to the exam table. The idea of not wearing clothes, possibly indefinitely, felt insurmountable.
“My clothes! What about clothes!?” I exclaimed, reflecting my immediate concern about this drastic shift in my life. Mom’s explanation underscored the gravity of the situation, framing it as a crucial step toward recovery and the potential for reintegration with the idea of not wearing any clothing in the future. We will need to seek more information and hire a medical lawyer to assist in returning to normal.
The daunting prospect of being the nude head cheerleader, both as a student and in every other aspect of life, overwhelmed me more than I could bear. I stood there, urging my paralyzed legs to move. As I managed to take a few steps toward the door, my mother began to open it. Suddenly, my vision faded to black while still in the exam room.
The specifics of my transition from the clinical room to a hospital bed blurred into obscurity, leaving me feeling disoriented and vulnerable. Lying there, exposed and alone, with an array of medical equipment attached to me, a profound sense of unease took hold. To my dismay at my exposure, what I was lying on was more uncomfortable. It looked more like a rubbery mat than anything else. I felt relieved the curtains were closed and hiding my nude and exposed body from onlookers.
On the other side of the curtain, I learned my mom, my friends, and fellow cheerleaders Alda and Maria were in the room waiting for me to awaken. My mom entered when she heard me moving before I could say anything. Mom said, “The hospital staff ran more tests while you were out. The inclusive finding is that you are allergic to nearly all of the fibers in clothing.
Shortly after, a few nurses entered the room, seemingly unconcerned about my emotional state while pulling my mom’s attention away. My friends explained that I had fainted. The events leading up to this moment felt like a hazy dream, and the abrupt shift from one setting to another only added to the surreal nature of the situation. The emotional and physical toll of my condition was becoming increasingly evident, and the hospital environment highlighted the seriousness of the journey I was undertaking.
Maria informed me that the doctors here kept me asleep while my body healed from the burning from the clothing and stress of your situation. How am I going to attend school if I cannot touch paper? I heard the ding of my phone on the tray next to my bed, full of messages and some missed calls. Then I felt Alda grab my hand, and Maria placed the phone back down while giving them a strange look.
“Your mom left to get your dad once you were awake to allow us to brief you…” Maria said. I was expecting the worst when she had me unlock my phone and open my social page. Shock and horror gripped me as I saw an image of myself, unconscious and fully nude, being wheeled out of the clinic by two paramedics. Hastily, I tossed the phone down on the bed to bounce off my bare leg and almost off the bed. The only thing I wanted to do was to die of embarrassment and to make it worse, Alda was about to hug me when she pulled back as if I was contagious.
Shortly, with some concern for my emotional state, several nurses entered the room while leaving the curtains open, allowing me to see others walk by and see me lying there naked. The events leading up to this point felt like a hazy dream, and the sudden shift from one environment to another only intensified the surrealism of my situation.
A female doctor checked on me, using my arms to cover my breasts and down between my legs with embarrassment all exposed. Doctor Smith said, “The nurses have informed your mother that your body is allergic to several clothing fibers reactions. Looking at my friends as my parents entered, I asked the doctor, “Am I allergic to paper? I remember the last thing I wore was that paper gown. To my relief, the doctor handed me a sheet of Kleenex. The doctor said, “If in contact with paper fibers briefly and only touching a small portion of your body, your skin will have little to no reaction.”
The doctor continued, “We will do everything we can to find the root cause of your condition. We tested your skin with several materials while you were sleeping. We found that you are allergic to nearly all fibers we use for clothing. Some fiber strands, your reactions were more drastic in bras and the cheer uniform your parents brought in last night.”
The world around me was crashing down on me. The distressing reality of an image of my naked body, now circulating virally on the internet, exacerbating the severity of the journey I was facing. Their faces were etched with a blend of concern and resolve. The road to recovery appeared daunting, where the fabric represented a literal and symbolic shedding of the layers that had once defined my existence. Alarmed about seeing my nude image and the prospect of living it was terrifying.
The doctor signified the next phase in my arduous journey toward understanding and managing my condition. Their expressions mirrored our collective determination to tackle the complexities of my condition. Facing the world devoid of the comfort of clothing loomed as a formidable part of my immediate future, underscoring the profound emotional and physical challenges ahead.
“Your skin’s rejection to every fiber strand we tested is alarming,” the doctor said solemnly, “and will require a multifaceted approach. You must see a clinical psychologist as part of the treatment. Initially, it will be necessary for you to remain nude as we start therapy.” The prospect of facing the world without the comfort of clothing became a significant aspect of the recovery process, highlighting the depth of the emotional and physical challenges ahead.
The room fell into a contemplative silence as the doctor prepared to leave. Exposed as I was, I felt a vulnerability that transcended the physical, a stark reminder of the sacrifices and confrontations this journey would entail. “This won’t be easy,” the doctor added, “but it’s a crucial step towards healing. At this point, we assume that her clothes are hazardous to her skin.” As the door closed, my parents and I prepared to face the daunting reality of the road ahead.
The silence in the room echoed the profound paradigm shift occurring in my life, necessitating a daunting and essential change. This shift involved not just physical exposure but also emotional reckoning. With the doctor’s departure, my parents and I were left in a shared moment of reflection, contemplating the challenges and uncertainties that lay ahead in our journey to manage and understand my condition. The closed doors symbolize the beginning of a path marked by resilience, understanding, and the gradual reclamation of my sense of self.
Amidst the uncertainty surrounding my condition, the support from my parents was invaluable. Using my cell phone, I called my friend Ada and put her on speakerphone. I shared the details of my ordeal: the viral circulation of my nude images on social media, the episode of fainting in the exam room, and the daunting prospect of being unable to wear clothing or cover myself with any form of textile again. This conversation provided a vital connection between the isolation of the hospital room and the comforting voices of friends, creating a moment of emotional connection amidst a challenging and unforeseen journey.
The explanation shed new light on the situation. The label of clothes as ‘hazardous’ pertained not to their physical properties but to a precaution to protect my skin from the physical harm that occurred upon contact with textiles. The possibility that seeing someone else wearing my clothes could trigger an emotional response, manifesting physically on my skin, was a startling realization. This revelation underscored the critical importance of a supportive and empathetic environment in addressing the unique challenges ahead of me.
The revelation that my clothes were labeled ‘hazardous’ illuminated not just the precautions essential for my recovery but also magnified the emotional complexities associated with my condition. Venturing out of the room as exposed as I was, devoid of the comfort of clothing, symbolized a significant step, reflecting the challenges I would face in the world beyond the hospital walls. This designation underscored a dual sense of vulnerability, both physical and emotional, adding yet another dimension to the intricate journey of managing and coming to terms with my condition.
The worry on my face reflected the daunting task of adapting to this new reality. Alleviating the situation, my mom turned tinged with hope and desperation at the nurse. ‘Is there another… any way to make this easier?’ she asked. My anxiety was tangible, especially with the haunting memory of my image already circulating on social media.
The nurse responded with a sympathetic smile. “We understand this is a difficult adjustment,” she said gently. “According to the doctor’s instructions, garments that could be toxic to the skin must be avoided as they are likely to trigger a reaction. Unfortunately, any kind of coverage is impossible in light of what happened when you were in the exam room at the clinic. The ultimate goal is to help her become comfortable without relying on external constraints.”
My hesitant nod mirrored the internal conflict, capturing the tumultuous struggle of accepting a new reality devoid of the familiar comfort of clothing. Bereft of any external armor, the journey toward acceptance was simultaneously daunting and liberating, demanding a courageous leap of faith into uncharted territories. This internal battle resonated with the sentiments I had once expressed in my speech as head cheerleader, drawing a poignant parallel between the challenges of embracing vulnerability in both personal and public spheres. The road ahead was shrouded in uncertainty, however tentative, signified a fledgling acceptance of the journey ahead.
The nurse’s gentle guidance offered options for discreetly exiting the room and returning home. As I turned to face my parents and the nurse, the full impact of my new reality settled heavily upon me. In a pivotal moment of self-realization, I voiced a profound acceptance: “I have a condition that will not allow me to wear clothing, and I need to embrace this new reality.” This admission signified an acknowledgment of the challenges that lay ahead.
The nurse let me and my parents know to reduce unnecessary exposure since I am not able to cover my body. The staff maintained my dignity by restricting access until I was safely inside the vehicle. The nurse applied the cream on my back and then guided me from the bed to a wheelchair-naked. The footrests forced me to open my legs, exposing my most private place. I placed my hands between my legs to hold onto left of my dignity.
Flanked by my parents, we moved toward the elevator, embarking on the uncertain journey that awaited beyond the hospital room. The enclosed space of the elevator mirrored the physical and emotional constriction of the moment. My vulnerability extended far beyond mere physical exposure, touching upon deep-seated internal conflicts hidden. Yet, with my parents beside me, their comforting presence transformed into a pillar of strength. Their unwavering support became my anchor, equipping me with the fortitude to face the challenges beyond the hospital doors.
The act of stepping out into the world, devoid of the defining shield of fabric, encapsulated the uncertainty and the immense potential for personal growth. As the elevator doors parted, I emerged, a figure marked by hesitation yet imbued with determination. I am prepared to confront the unknowns to embrace the challenges ahead on this uncharted path toward healing and self-discovery.