There was no peace on earth. In fact, there was only stress. It was mid-March a few years ago, and my beloved and I were in Austin, TX for SXSW. As much as we love the festival, this particular year was more than a bit challenging.
Mister had been looking for a job-change and it wasn’t going as hoped. I was not only feeling the weight of an upcoming birthday, but also the disarray of indecision regarding my career path (or lack thereof). It wasn’t the best time for a vacation. But the trip had been planned for months (as well as paid for). We decided we’d try and make the best of it. Enjoy ourselves. Eat some bar-b-que and have some margaritas.
God knows, we tried. But Mister broke out in a peculiar rash and I couldn’t keep my shit together at all. There were fights. Fights to end all fights. The kind of fights that have you questioning the validity of every single thing you’ve ever believed. There were spells of complete silence. This was easy to keep up during a concert. It was a hell of a lot harder during meals. Worst of all, there were times when we couldn’t even look at each other. It was too painful. And it was frightening. And, like most things in life, it was temporary.
Temporary is a funny thing. Even if you know in your heart of hearts that “this too shall pass”, it doesn’t matter. When you’re in the thick of it, you’re in the thick of it. And it sucks. As a southerner, I’d love to sashay to the window and declare that “I’ll think about it tomorrow — at Tara.” But that just doesn’t cut it. Once you feel something, you can’t un-feel it. Temporary or not, pain is pain. And Mister and I were both hurting.
As we were still committed to trying to hang in there, we rolled up our sleeves and did the work. We downed a couple of Fosters, which helped a lot. This was when I learned that Fosters in a can requires two girl-hands for holding and drinking. And that their slogan should be “Fosters: Australian for Miller”. This was also when I learned just how strong I can be. I already knew Mister could be strong. I was reminded yet again.
Anyway, we came home from the festival and Mister’s rash had gotten worse. He was now grimacing in pain. It just so happened that I had an appointment with the doctor the next day. Mister called in and got an appointment two hours after mine. When I was leaving the doctor’s office, I pulled the doc aside and told him about Mister’s rash. I wanted to make sure my man didn’t try and act tough in front of the doctor, and that the doc knew just how bad this rash had been on Mister. He tossed out a guess of what it probably was and I ignored him and went on my merry way. I had ridden my bike to my appointment, so I got in a nice bit of exercise and headed home.
A few hours later, Mister returned from his appointment and sure enough, the doctor’s earlier guess had panned out: shingles.
Now, I knew a little bit about shingles. I knew that if a person has ever had chicken pox, the shingles virus was lying dormant in their bodies and could flare up later in life. But I thought later in life meant later in life. Old people get shingles. Not young people. Not even still-think-they’re-young people.
And that’s not all. Did I forget to mention the delicate location of said rash? Mister’s balls. Mister’s left ball, to be precise. That’s right. Shingle Balls. Shingle Balls. All the freakin’ way. And did I also forget to mention that Mister and I had been, shall we say “intimate” in Austin, before the Battle of South By?
Shingles are not contagious. Casual contact is no threat. And even though shingles come from chicken pox virus, I wasn’t worried about that because I had chicken pox as a child and once you’ve had chicken pox, you’re immune for the rest of your life. Mister was now on meds and feeling better already. He had seen the doctor on Tuesday. On Friday morning, I woke up with a couple of bug bites on my neck. While driving to an appointment, a new bug bite popped up on my wrist. It was peculiar, too, because I never saw the bug. That night, the little fuckers got me again. By Sunday, I was right spotty. And itchy.
It was Easter Sunday, and we were staying in. In between sterilizing the house in hopes of killing off whatever was feeding off of me and scratching like mad, I did a little research. What I found wasn’t pretty.
Apparently, something like thirteen percent of the population actually get chicken pox a second time. What? That’s right, a second time. And yes, one can get chicken pox from exposure to shingles. Go figure.
So there I was, having a mid-life crisis, trying to figure out how to be an adult, and battling a childhood illness. Because my bout was mild, I was able to see the twisted humor in the whole damn scene. And it made me wonder: are we ever really adults? And if we are, does that mean we absolutely have to kill off the kid inside?
As I scratched away, I thought about my self-doubts and childhood dreams. Yes, I let go of a few (there was no way I was ever going to be British, no matter how much I studied at the Madonna school). But I also decided to hang in there with a few other dreams. As long as I’m not hurting myself or others, it can’t be a bad thing to want to be a rock star. And believing in magic and miracles isn’t such a bad way to live. Especially if that path brings me joy and allows me to spread that joy in the world.
It’s a hell of thing. The kid in me had to show up in order for the adult in me to get over herself and get back to enjoying the ride. And it all went down at a time when a lot of the world was celebrating the miracle of rolling back a stone and finding an empty cave.
I’ll scratch to that.