Warning: this is a long post with some disturbing content and images.
It just takes one… HFMD is real and can affect you too!
The onset of the monsoon season is inevitably accompanied by the arrival of the flu and HFMD virus. And in our tropical homeland it just takes one moment of contact to invade your system.
It comes at least twice a year, and according to a report on the Straits Times, there were 1,249 cases of HFMD reported from 29th July to 4th August , marking the most number of reported cases recorded in a week for 2018. In comparison, there were only 868 cases reported in the same period the year before. HFMD is an extremely contagious disease and with sick children cooped up in their homes for the duration of their illness, tension and frustration can lead to the excuse that maybe it’s ok to let the kids out for brief period of time . . . they’re so bored and we just need some way to expel their pent up energy! This is something I totally understand. Really! Mother to a spirited boy myself, sometimes I’m at my wits end trying to think of various ways to keep him occupied and possibly out of trouble. But I guess it’s time to bring a little attention to the question, “But at who’s expense?”
You see, not so long ago, my son had the bad luck of contracting a local strain of HFMD that was doing the rounds at the local child friendly, germ infested battlefields of what we affectionately call the heartlands. Half of Singapore had already contracted it and lived, so it was initially looked upon as no big deal and just a part of growing up. Unfortunately, this was when I was five months pregnant and at the time I was not aware that whilst being pregnant your immune system is more easily compromised.
The body generally lowers its immunity so that it wouldn’t kill or flush out the “little alien” growing in your belly - your very beautiful fetus. So through the day-to-day caring of my very sick son, I contracted the disease. My husband and helper also contracted the virus, but because their immune systems were much more robust compared to mine, they developed an overall sick and achy body, much like the common cold. They both felt terribly tired and needed to sleep it off over the weekend before making a full recovery. I took it in my stride, expecting the same reaction, but as it turned out, I received the full-blown effects from the HFMD invasion. So with the advice from my ‘Obgyny’, I rested at home and expected the natural course of the disease to play out. As no amount of medication or antibiotics will help cure a viral attack, you just have to allow for your own body’s immunity to fight off the virus - and hope that you come out the winner.
Seven days passed as I managed uncomfortable bouts of fever, flu-like symptoms and the inevitable blisters and ulcers that come with the territory. Easy . . . right? Well not really! I prided myself on being resourceful enough to transform my roller work chair into my personal wheelchair to get me around the house and I was thankful for my wonderfully understanding husband, who swooped in and took over the very tedious job of keeping my son occupied (my son had just recovered from the disease and was back to being hyper again).
I recovered and went back to work for five intensive days of marking, as it was exam period in the school. I felt relieved in some way that I was back to work and being productive, instead of lying in bed feeling sorry for myself. But unfortunately this was not the end of my plight. Somehow I developed a rash. I don't know how it started - it may have been a simple allergic reaction to the environment, I’m still not sure.
Nothing serious, but still worrying, as it started on my wrist and spread little by little down my arm, then onto my chest. A new cluster of blisters appeared on my feet – it was now mostly activated by pressure sensitive areas on my body, like my back as I slept, my bum when seated and my elbows when I rested them on table tops while typing, etc. I went to the doctors and they just gave me some topical creams to help with the itch, but nothing strong, as I was heavily pregnant by then. Unfortunately, the rash then developed into painful blisters, much like the HFMD variety. Except it was now all over my body and this new episode didn’t seem to be resolving itself. It was just getting worse. Blisters over old blisters as new ones developed. There was no respite - my scalp was littered with blisters, my arms were covered with them, as I took turns every night, lying on my sides to give my back a break. And my basketball sized tummy was not spared, with lesions breaking out over the top of it. My only hope was to keep wearing lose-fitting clothes as elastic bands were areas begging for new blisters. Soon the symptoms were so severe that I couldn’t walk from the sheer pressure of the blisters around my feet and legs compressing on every nerve ending they could find.
My OBgyny hadn’t seen anything like it and my pediatrician didn't know what to make of it either. Fearing it was a foreign strain of HFMD, I was sent to a skin specialist in the same hospital as my OBgyny and he, to my horror, was at a loss as well. He did a biopsy and sent me for immediate hospitalization in the communicable diseases unit until they could figure out what they were facing. Thank god for hospital insurance!
We found out that it was actually my own hyperactive immune system raging on to hunt down the ghost of the HFMD virus, (which I had just recovered from mind you) and because I had successfully recovered from the previous bout, there was none to be found. Hence, my immune system didn’t know to stop, as it attacked the rest of my skin with the intention to save and protect my beautiful baby daughter. Kudos to my immune system - but seriously?
In any case, the solution was now simple. I was given the all clear to check myself out of the hospital because I wasn’t contagious. It was up to me to either take on a course of steroids to curb the progression of the rage of my immune system, or take the high road and let the body run it’s course. Being the idiot that I was, I thought to myself, that I couldn’t possibly expose my unborn baby to steroids, and that what I ‘should’ do was to suck it up, trust my own body and steady the course of self-recovery. This was one month after the fact and seeing that I had endured for so long, surely I could go a little longer for her sake. Unfortunately, one week later, my body didn't get the memo that there wasn’t any more virus left in my body and the torrent of blisters was still on the increase. That was when my skin specialist made the decision for me and reasoned that it was worse for my fetus that I wasn’t getting any rest either during the day or at night, and she was already underweight. I caved in and agreed to a dose of steroids to get the rash under control - and truth be told, in a matter of three to six days the blisters stopped developing and the old ones slowly began to dry up.
That was when I kicked myself, wondering why the hell I hadn’t started the steroids earlier? So that was that, and now for my scar riddled body to dry out and begin the slow road to recovery.
But then the onslaught of ‘the itch’ began. Still battling sleepless nights, with at least two cold showers every night to manage the skin’s recovery, I was faced with a new medley of uncontrollable itching and irritation across the surface of my entire body.
My skin specialist was kind enough to emotionally prepare me for the fact that due to the severity of the episode my nails would eventually fall off. And sure enough, the fateful day came when my first toe nails would did fall off. I teared-up as I mourned the beginning of the end of my precious nails, but it still didn't prepare me for when the rest of them tore away from my fingers. It’s funny how something so little could affect every little way that you function. Washing my hands, hair or even just writing or folding the tea towels felt weird. I never knew I had grown so accustomed to them for me to regret their absence so very much. Then again I’ve never been without nails before, so I guess my surprise and grief was warranted.
But like everything else, it was fleeting and just a moment in my journey of recovery. I think it took just three months for my nails grow back. The itching left me a lot sooner. Like three weeks to a month in total. And I was left with my final month of pregnancy in bliss and clear of all the discomfort. I was happy to finally carry and caress my son in the biggest of hugs again. I was happy to finally be able to walk again and to take my son for a run in the park. Of course my skin was still red and splodgy with the scars as a reminder to myself and everyone with eyes, that I had survived the craziest episode of HFMD in the history of HFMDs.
But, I have to say, that all that self-pity faded to nothing the minute I looked into the face of my beautiful baby girl just seconds after she was born.
Of course the psychological effect took a little longer to get over . . . like any trauma, your mind is the last frontier. It didn’t help with the constant reminder of the everyday passer-by looking at my skin and my very presence in a close proximity, like a lift, would send concerned mothers hurrying to pull their straying child away from me, for fear that I may be one of those socially irresponsible idiots who go out in public when infected with a communicable disease. I won’t say I blame them, but I have to admit that that was my lowest moment.
You see, I had to go for a cesarean section, which meant no wraps, massages or exercise for 6 - 8 weeks to help with getting back to pre-pregnancy shape. With the inevitable weight gain of pregnancy, coupled with the angry red scars all over my body, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for myself and wanted to retreat into my safe space with my beautiful babies. I thought that hey, with technology nowadays, I could definitely get by as a hermit until my scars heal and fade nicely . . . right? Online groceries, Whatsapp to keep me connected to my pals and with no real urge to get out and paint the town red . . . I was more than content to stay at home. Realistically, I wanted to take down all the mirrors in the house, turn away from every reflective surface or window and keep my head down when entering the lift whenever I took my babies out for a walk. Looking back, I was, for want of a better word, ‘broken.’
All I saw when I looked in the mirror was a fat, ugly human being. And the very act of not wanting to face that reflection left me extremely self-critical self, spitefully remarking under my breathe . . . “weak.”
At that point… all I wanted to do was give up. For a brief time I allowed myself to wallow in self-pity and cry, but not for too long. My beautiful husband wouldn’t allow that for too long either. His matter-of-fact way of reacting to my scars and my lack of finger and toenails was often humorous. He always gave me support, whatever I threw on over my scared body, before stepping out to face the world helped me enormously (bless him).
Also, it was tiring enough trying to breastfeed my new daughter every two to three hours, without carrying the extra baggage of self-pity as well. That was when I realized that I wasn’t going to give up on myself. I set myself a deadline.
I allowed myself one last cry, but made damn sure it was a really good one! Then it was over. I wiped away the tears, nursed my baby-girl, ate a bowl of ice cream and made a plan. Right there and then I decided, I can’t do anything about my ugly skin, but I sure was capable of fixing my out of shape body. Being a girl, body confidence was big for me. I wanted to look good on the outside and hopefully by gaining some control back in my life, start to feel better on the inside. Diet and exercise ruled, apart from bonding, nursing and going back to being an ever-present Mum whenever my adoring son returned from school. Conversations with him about life outside were my link to reality (which I allowed to seep into my home). My hubby humored me and soon it was time to go back to work, as my maternity leave came to an end. I didn’t shed all the weight I had hoped, but I did gain an inner sense of confidence. The daily mat exercises gave me a feeling of accomplishment - and did I mention how any sort of exercise really helps with depression?
Ultimately I survived, and was able with the support of my husband, brave the everyday fears of stepping out of the house to face those staring eyes, buy the groceries, go to work by myself and send my son to day-care. My skin specialist assured me that the scars would be gone in half a year, but here I am 20 months later, still beautifully marked with the evidence of the event - looking pretty much a leopard woman now.
Now things are different. I wear these scars with pride, knowing that I survived another crazy chapter of life and came out stronger, braver and with a beautiful baby daughter as a reminder that every day, it was all worth it.
But still I urge you not to bring out your child infected with HFMD into public places. You never know who your child’s virus could infect. It just takes one - one sneeze into their chubby little hand, to touch a table top, a hand rail, a button on the lift and pass it to an unsuspecting person, who’s immunity might be compromised - and for them to never be the same again. Be cautious, be thoughtful and help us all stay safe.