Day
one: What the heck is this red rash on my left hip? Laid awake half the night
wondering what it could be. Cancer?
Spider Bites? Allergic reaction to something? Impetigo? (No that’s around the
mouth), Herpes? (Did I get an STD from that camp bathroom? If I did, what will I tell DH?--I know, I know--doesn't happen but, anxiety rules my brain at 2 a.m. )
Day
two: This rash HURTS and it’s getting worse.
Drop everything and go see a doc.
“Doc, I’ve got this rash on
my hip. I think it’s a heat rash. I’ve been working outside a lot in the sun
and getting all sweaty and stuff.”
Doc
gives me a paper dress, comes back with a young nurse and looks at my rash. His
face tells me it is bad news. “I’m sorry but you have a classic case of Shingles.”
Doc
gave me the speech you can find anywhere on the internet, called in some meds
to my pharmacy and sent me on my way.
I
let my hubby know the awful news. He
came right home but about all he could do was feel sorry for me. Then the pain and then horrible nausea
started. I’d told my doc I had horrific
reaction to Lortab so he prescribed Tramadol for pain. Turns out that stuff is also full of codeine
and by the time I figured it out and quit taking it I’d barfed up my socks so
many times I ended up in the ER getting rehydrated.
Long
story short. My left rear looks like I was caught stealing chickens and got hit with buckshot by the farmer. It stings like I slid down a cheese grater
into alcohol. Okay, TMI. Sorry.
But
I’m not quite dead. I’m getting
better. I don’t want to go in the cart
so I’m taking the pills that are supposed to kill the virus even though they’re
the size of giant jelly beans. (The pills, not the virus.)
The
rash is quite awesome as rashes go and has stopped spreading and oozing. Oh, yeah, TMI. Sorry.
No,
not dead yet. I think I’ll go for a walk.
I feel happy. I feel happy. Take away the cart.
And
if you’re over 60 run, don’t walk to a place that gives immunizations against
Shingles. The shot is expensive but
Medicare and insurance should cover the cost.
