Early in the quarantine, I ordered some new skincare products. A couple weeks later, one of my daytime caregivers was filling in on an evening shift. After she got me into bed, I asked her to get my new facial oil instead of the regular moisturizing cream I usually used. Obediently, she returned with a palmful and rubbed it into my cheeks and neck. My skin felt soothed and I fell asleep.
The next morning, my mom woke me up while it was still dark so we could get to an appointment. When she switched on the light, she looked concerned.
“Do you feel OK? Your skin looks funny,” she said. “What is going on?” I felt fine, but she was freaking me out. I looked in a mirror and gasped at what I saw.
My face looked like a little kid finger painted red-brown swirls up and down it. When we saw my pillow was brown too, we realized my nighttime assistant had grabbed self-tanning lotion instead of the new facial oil.
Desperately, I rubbed it hard with my fist and was relieved when it started to budge. It scrubbed off, mostly.