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Caught in the Crossfire with Shingles
When my mom hit 43, I was a know-it-all college student who thought she was practically ancient. She was the kind of woman who chain-smoked menthol cigarettes, binged on Hill Street Blues, and jammed to Eric Clapton on a massive stereo that could rival a small car. My friends, however, saw things differently. “She’s so young!” they’d exclaim, especially since their parents were nearing 60—definitely not cool enough to smoke or to even acknowledge that Clapton had once been in a band called Cream.
Now, at 43, I’ve got two know-it-all kids of my own. Thanks to a little help from Miss Clairol and my stubborn blackheads, I like to think I look younger than my years. I still rock my old Converse and hoodies, the same way I did when I rolled my eyes at my “ancient” mom. I even act younger, dropping F-bombs and giggling at my kids’ fart jokes.
But today, I got the shock of my life: I was diagnosed with a condition I assumed only affected the elderly. It’s on my back and it hurts like crazy.
As a kid, I remember my mom whispering with concern about how my grandmother was suffering from shingles. I pictured her skin peeling off like the shingles on our roof during a rainstorm. Whenever I visited the pharmacy, I’d skim through the pamphlets about shingles prevention, filled with worried seniors debating whether to consult their doctors. I thought shingles were only for the old and frail—until I discovered the hot rash on my back.
“OMG,” my husband exclaimed when he took a look. “That’s disgusting. Are you dying?” my teenage son chimed in, while my tween daughter squealed, “Gross!” Thanks, fam. With no support at home, I turned to my trusty friend, Google, and typed in “hot rash back lumpy.” The verdict? Shingles.
Shingles? That can’t be right! But when the nurse practitioner at the clinic took a glance, her first word was “herpes.” Wait, what?! “Herpes zoster,” she clarified. Great.
So, I called my mom. “Hey, when did you first get shingles?” I asked. “Shingles?” she replied, confused. At 65, she was more focused on her grandchildren than shingles. “You must be mistaken, honey. I’ve never had them. But Grandma did…”
I gritted my teeth all the way to the pharmacy, where the very pamphlet that haunted me was waiting near the blood pressure machine (which, by the way, was a concerning 166/72). The pharmacist, who looked like he was pushing 60, apologized for having to give me a name-brand prescription because the generic was out of stock. “Did everyone get shingles at once?” I joked, trying to lighten the mood.
With a conspiratorial tone, he admitted, “We’re sold out because a lot of people are coming in for outbreaks.” Oh great. Just what I wanted—confirmation that I’m joining the ranks of the older crowd.
I like this pharmacist, but I didn’t want to be part of any club that included him. And why did he assume I wasn’t some party-loving person who caught a sexually transmitted infection? “It’s pretty painful, isn’t it?” he said, noticing my watery eyes. I nodded and asked for his recommendations on soothing products. “Aveeno oatmeal bath and calamine lotion are solid choices,” he replied.
I ended up buying both—plus a six-pack of Ensure, just in case.
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In short, life takes unexpected turns, and here I am, navigating the world of shingles at 43. Who knew I’d be dealing with this at such a “young” age?