So, I'd been feeling sicky. Feverish. Achy. You know the drill. Then I notice some weird bumps on my arm and face. I figure that's a little weird, but popping a benadryl will help. What makes this significant from other past illnesses, was I actually went to the doctor - instead of just self-diagnosing with my trusty friend, WebMD. (In the past, it was told me I have postpartum depression - sans baby, rheumatoid arthritis, cataracts, and a slew of various cancers.)
I hop into a cab to go the 2 miles to the doctors, chit chat with the nurse for a while, and then finally see Dr. Hungary (name changed to protect the hilarious, cute, elderly Hungarian doctor from my poor writing). We talk for roughly 1.3 minutes, she takes a glance at my arm, mumbles something about getting a colleague and BOLTS from the room.
Dr. Hungary brings back in what I imagine the doctor at Woodstock looks like, now. He's tall, oldish, with a long white ponytail and a weird "I may still be celebrating 4-20 a day late" smile. Then, out of his pocket, he pulls a Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass, and starts examining my arm. Without touching me.
Long story short - they tell me I have chicken pox. And what's my normal human reaction?
Uncontrollable laughter. What 25 year old get chicken pox?!?! I mean, really. Only me. Completely absurd. Doctors Hungary and Woodstock-turned-Sherlock-Holmes became a bit concerned about my mental health at that point.
I call my mom, I call my boss (1 week off. And I'm actually upset. But that's for another blog post). I decide to walk the 2 miles back, because, let's face it, it's most likely my last time breathing fresh air for the near future.
Of course, every person I pass I start thinking I have infected. At Walgreens waiting for my prescription, all I could think was I was infecting EVERYONE. Talk about some Passover-Jewish/Holy Week-Catholic guilt.
Time for some more anti-virals!
Xoxo,
PoxGirl
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