I Don't Even Have a Roof!

I would like to begin by saying that I am a relatively healthy human being. As I child I went through a stretch of illness, but from my high school years through my mid 20's I have, thankfully, endured little more that a head cold. Now that I have set the scene, I'll tell you about the rash.

For over a week I had been waking up in the middle of the night with severe itching fits. This only seemed to happen while I was asleep, which is unfortunate because when I am in that state I will do anything to alleviate discomfort, as long as it doesn't involve to getting out of bed. Since I was dealing with an itch my recovery options were to scratch it violently or smear it with the lotion I keep on my nightstand (Don't ask). My wife and I explored possible causes of my ailment, and the two most plausible were an allergic reaction to something in the sheets or bed mites. The sad fact is that both of those situations could be remedied by simply washing my bed linens, but sloth led me to explore other possible causes rather than just completing the simple chore.

Over time a rash began to spread across the left side of my chest. At first I passed it off as simple irritation from my abuse, but the redness soon gave way to raised bumps, which in turn morphed into oozing pustules. I asked my wife for her diagnosis, and after an examination she opined, "It looks like poison ivy. Have you come into contact with any poison ivy lately?" My wife is extremely intelligent, and while I trust her judgment in most matters there were two major flaws in her assessment. First, I live in a very urban section of Queens, NY. Everything, even the trees, are made of concrete and brick. The only green I see on a regular basis is the money passed during the morning crack deal. Second, I have an odd body shape. My narrow shoulders give way to a broad chest, scrawny arms, a delightful beer gut, and thick legs. I am the equivalent of God's Mr. Potato head. This has left me too ashamed to remove my shirt in the shower, let alone a forest.

I continued to ignore it. After all, what you don't know can't hurt you. Early the next morning I was at work performing my daily ritual of shirking responsibility. On this particular occasion I was leafing through the NY Daily News. On my way to the crossword puzzle I read a headline that instantly caught my attention. Generally, any glimpse of an actual news story would leave me glassy eyed, but this article sent a chill down my spine. It told the story of a 19-year-old woman who recently passed away due to complications from flesh-eating bacteria. The piece said this virus began as a rash, and progressed to include body pain, temporary blindness, and rectal bleeding. I tore upstairs to the restroom to examine my rectum, and each time I bumped into something in my frenzy I convinced myself it was do to temporary blindness.

As I sat waiting for the doctor I made a mental list of which I wanted to give my eulogy and whether or not I should be buried with my CD collection. The door creaked open and a beautiful young woman entered the room. She introduced herself as the nurse and conducted a preliminary interview. I realized as I sat there how old I have become. When did the girls I used to check out at the mall become nurses? I must admit, even though I am happily married, there was a certain part of my brain that still wanted to impress her. I had no control over it. For example, in order to get an idea about my immune system she inquired how many sexual partners I was involved with. Without even thinking I replied, "What did you have in mind".

She left, and a few minutes later the door swung open and the doctor made his grand entrance. He was an overweight man in his early fifties who walked with a cane and conducted himself with an overt sense of conceit. I felt as though he was trying to rip off the style of FOX television's "House". He assuredly announced that he had already made his diagnosis, but merely needed a peek at the infection to verify it. Who the hell was this guy, and why was he wasting his obvious supernatural ability at an urgent care facility in Queens? Before I even finished removing my shirt he told me not to bother. He had seen enough, and indeed, his worst fears were true.

He told me I had shingles. I tried to explain to him that given my fear of heights and the fact that I live in an apartment building made this impossible to contract such a thing. Could I have caught it from someone? Was my wife cheating on me with a contractor? Apparently the disease has nothing to do with roofing. Basically it is like grown up chicken pox. When I contracted chicken pox as a child, I never fully shed the disease it just went dormant. Now it had resurfaced and wanted revenge. The thing that really blew my mind was when the doctor informed me that shingles is a form of the herpes virus. Herpes? I'm not saying there's anything wrong with people who have herpes, but I if I have to have it at least I feel like I should have the enjoyment of catching it.

The doctor prescribed Valtrex, which is primarily issued to herpes sufferers. As I stood in line at Walgreen's I became overcome with embarrassment. I felt the need to proclaim loudly that it was shingles that I suffered from, not herpes. That's when I learned the painful lesson that no one wants to hang out with a shingles patient either.

Time has passed and the rash has subsided, but though my skin will be restored to its original form, my emotional scars may never heal. I have already been forced to defend my honour to two nosy guests who discovered Valtrex in my medicine cabinet. If there is any advice I can pass on to the youth of today it would be to be safe, never have unprotected sex with poultry or construction workers. At least, I think that's how it goes.

Contributed by: Brian Mollica