My mother was always kind, caring, loving, and concerned. But she was never one to give unsolicited advice.

When I did ask for her opinion, however, she told me what she thought. And I listened.

But that’s not what I’m talking about here.

I’m talking about the things we visited about in everyday conversation. The little bits of information she shared that didn’t seem particularly significant at the time.

Like when she told me she was always hot.
When she complained about itching.
When she talked about her dermatologist appointments.

These are things that, had I paid closer attention, might have prepared me for what was to come… for me!

Things started heating up.

I often called Mom in the afternoon to see if she wanted to go to Walmart or the grocery store.

“Sure, honey.” she’d say. “But give me a little time to change clothes. I’ve been working outside, and I’m soaking wet!”

Sometime in her 60s, Mom’s internal thermostat had gone haywire.

I’m sure it had something to do with hormones, but now she was always hot. I remember her mentioning it from time to time, but I didn’t pay much attention until she moved near me in her 80s.

Even in the dead of winter, I’d arrive to pick her up and find her wearing only a light jacket.

“Mom, are you sure that’s enough?”

“Oh, yes. I’m always so warm.”

Then she’d climb into the back seat of our car, where Ron would have the heater running full blast.

A few minutes later, she’d gently tap him on the shoulder.

“Hon, could you please turn the heat down just a smidge?”

I was 64 when Mom died. Not long afterward, strange things started happening. And they seemed oddly familiar.

Suddenly, the slightest physical activity could leave me soaked. Even looking at a sweater made me sweat.

Apparently, I’d inherited Mom’s wonky thermostat.

And it was turned way up.

Then came the little places.

Mom was a frequent visitor to the dermatologist.

There were spots on her skin, some precancerous, that the doctor would freeze off, burn off, or occasionally remove and send for a biopsy.

She called them her “little places.” As in “they found some other little places on my face today.” I’d heard about them for years.

Shortly after my thermostat malfunctioned, I got a little place of my own.

Except it wasn’t so little, and it was on my leg. It looked like a pencil eraser had taken root roughly three inches above my left knee.

And it was growing, so I decided to have it checked. I knew where to go.

Mom’s dermatologist removed the lump, sent it for a biopsy, and everything was fine. While I was there, they took care of two more spots, one on my chest and another on my face.

Then they set an appointment for me to return in a year for a checkup. I’ve been back three times since. Apparently I’ve become a regular customer, and I have the tiny scars to prove it.

Next, things got itchy.

Mom had started cutting the tags out of the necks of her shirts because they made her back itch. Then her scalp started itching too.

Were they related? Who knew. But back to the dermatologist she went.

Before long, our Walmart trips included picking up prescription anti-itch shampoos and lotions. Somehow it still never occurred to me I was getting a preview of my own future.

Not long ago the tags on my own clothing started driving me crazy. Then my head started itching. And it seems any kind of plastic that touches my back now leaves red scaly spots.

Bras are the worst, of course. So to avoid the time, expense and experimentation it would take to find one that doesn’t irritate me, I just go without whenever I can — and suffer the consequences when I can’t.

Finally, the clothes.

As Mom got older, she began complaining that her shirts were getting too tight. She wasn’t necessarily getting heavier, she was just changing shape.

She and I had always worn nearly the same size and liked similar styles, so whenever I visited, she’d have a little pile waiting for me.

“Deb, I’ve got a couple more shirts for you. I just can’t wear them anymore.”

I was delighted. All the tags had been removed and they fit me perfectly.

Until recently.

Now those very same shirts are getting tight.

And when they’re tight, they’re hot.

And when I’m hot, I itch.

I’m beginning to wonder if I’m allergic to my own sweat. Ugh.

I heard Mom, but I never really listened.

Looking back, I wish I’d paid more attention to those little things Mom told me. She never made a big deal out of them. People manage conditions that are far worse every day.

But until I experienced them myself, I had no idea how frustrating and uncomfortable they could be. Knowing what I do now, I would have given her a lot more empathy and understanding.

So now, like Mom, I make concessions.

I avoid a heavy coat — especially in the car. I wear a sweat band when working outside, and I exercise in the basement with fans blowing from every direction.

I schedule dermatology appointments when I can hide out for a couple of days afterward. I avoid anything that irritates my skin — which seems to be almost everything.

And I’ve accepted that even prescription anti-itch creams don’t help much.

I’ve often wondered about the cause of all this. From what the doctors have told me, it’s just a lovely combination of age, hormones… and heredity.

Thanks, Mom.

And I know exactly what she’d say if I could tell her what she gave me.

“Oh, Deb. I’m so sorry.”

And she would mean it.

But knowing my mother, I suspect she’d be laughing inside just a little as she said it.

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