Skip to content 
I woke up scratching my arm so hard that I actually drew a little blood.
At first, I thought it was just another mosquito bite. It had been a warm summer night, and I’d left the bedroom window slightly open to let in some fresh air. I stumbled into the bathroom, switched on the light, and froze.
Tiny red bumps covered the inside of my forearm.
“That’s strange,” I muttered.
They weren’t painful, just incredibly itchy.
I rubbed some over-the-counter anti-itch cream on them, shrugged it off, and went to work.
By lunchtime, the bumps had spread.
Not everywhere—just enough to make me uncomfortable. Every few minutes I’d catch myself scratching without even realizing it.
My coworkers noticed.
“Poison ivy?” one asked.
“Maybe bedbugs?” another suggested.
That word made my stomach sink.
The thought of bugs hiding in my bed was enough to make me drive straight to the store after work. I bought mattress covers, new sheets, disinfectant spray, and enough cleaning supplies to sanitize an entire hotel.
That evening I washed everything.
Blankets.
Pillows.
Curtains.
Even the stuffed chair in my bedroom.
By midnight, my apartment smelled like bleach, but I felt confident I’d solved the mystery.
The next morning I woke up even worse.
Now both arms were covered.
Small raised bumps.
Some bright red.
Others pale in the center.
Every one of them itching like crazy.
My sister insisted I visit a doctor.
“I’ll go if it’s still bad tomorrow,” I promised.
Tomorrow came.
The bumps had reached my neck.
That was enough.
My family doctor examined the rash for only a few seconds before asking several unexpected questions.
“Have you changed laundry detergent?”
“No.”
“New soap?”
“No.”
“New medication?”
“No.”
“Pets?”
“I’ve had the same dog for seven years.”
He nodded thoughtfully.
Then he asked something I hadn’t expected.
“Have you ever had allergy testing?”
I laughed.
“I don’t have allergies.”
He smiled politely.
“A lot of people say that.”
He handed me a referral to an allergy specialist.
Two days later, I sat in a bright examination room with my sleeve rolled above my shoulder.
The nurse explained the procedure.
“We’re going to place tiny drops of different substances on your skin.”
“Will it hurt?”
“Not much.”
She smiled reassuringly.
“You’ll probably be more bored than uncomfortable.”
Within minutes, my upper arm looked like a tiny science experiment.
Small numbered marks stretched from shoulder to elbow.
Each number represented something different.
Grass pollen.
Tree pollen.
Dust mites.
Cat dander.
Dog dander.
Several molds.
A variety of foods.
The nurse gently pricked each tiny drop with a sterile device.
It barely hurt.
Then she said something that surprised me.
“Now don’t scratch.”
“I’ll try.”
Fifteen minutes later, I understood why she’d warned me.
Several spots had begun itching intensely.
By twenty minutes, some had become raised.
By thirty minutes, my arm looked almost exactly like the photograph people now share across social media with dramatic captions.
Large swollen bumps.
Bright red circles.
Some nearly the size of quarters.
I stared in disbelief.
“That’s… not good, is it?”