There’s no good reason that I’m writing right now. A) I’m on Percocet, which means I’m overly honest and cranky because B) I’m in pain and woozy because C) I. Have. Fucking. Shingles.
WHO THE FUCK GETS SHINGLES? OLD PEOPLE. In my mind, people who get shingles are old. Not 38-year-old women who aren’t sick anymore. Oops, just kidding! Because I’m 38, I don’t have cancer, my white blood count is 4.8 (“stop being greedy,” my oncologist informs me everytime I moan about how I wish it were above 5, you know, the normal number for people who haven’t gone through chemo), but I HAVE SHINGLES. So apparently old people aren’t the only ones.
My left shoulder feels like someone beat it with a baseball bat, this horrible rash is so simultaneously itchy and outstandingly sensitive and painful that I wander around the house shirtless because even the quiet whisper of a t-shirt throws me into agony. Needless to say, Michael has decided that speaking is not the greatest idea at the moment, so he’s been very quiet.
“What’s stressing you out lately?” Asks my GP.
“You’ve gone through chemo.” Says my oncologist.
“You went to sweat lodge and got hot.” Says my therapist.
I give up.
