The soft pink lining of my cheeks, the ridges along the roof of my mouth, the recesses of my throat: the year before I turned thirty, they all betrayed me. Without any apparent provocation, penny-sized blisters bloomed along their surfaces—swelled swiftly, then burst. The coppery taste of blood became normal, persistent even through the chalky residue of anesthetic mouthwash.
Sloughing, the doctors called it, and then added words like ulcers, lesions, inflammation. But while they could describe what was happening, they didn’t know why. And none of the medical descriptions seemed to convey the fury with which my mucous membranes—first my mouth and throat, then my eyes and even my vaginal lining—turned against me. I couldn’t form an “o” without splitting the thick black scabs that knit over my lips, couldn’t touch the raw meat of my tongue to my teeth. I lost half my consonants.
My stepmother, Jo Ann, was the best at making sense of my clumsy sounds. While my father frowned in confusion, she translated my slush into crisp English. She spoke for me as we met with nurses, general physicians, ophthalmologists, dermatologists, and ER doctors. She pleaded and pressed, bullied and wheedled, until administrative schedulers squeezed in same-day appointments and doctors reviewed my father’s detailed charts on temperature fluctuations and caloric intake. Once, a nurse took one look at me and assumed from the wreck of my face that I’d been in a car accident. I broke into a smile that ripped open my scabs and made me shudder with fresh pain. Jo Ann was able to laugh freely, and I found myself relaxing into the sound, grateful that she was able to make it for the both of us.