When my mom turned 43, I was a college student convinced I knew everything. To my youthful perspective, she seemed ancient—she chain-smoked menthol cigarettes, tuned into Hill Street Blues, and spun Eric Clapton records on a massive stereo system that could rival a small car. My friends disagreed, sighing, “She’s so young!” Their parents were nearing 60, too proper to smoke, and still wary of Clapton’s past in a band called Cream.
Now, at 43, I have two confident kids of my own. Thanks to Miss Clairol and my persistent blackhead, I like to think I look younger than my years. I’ve retained the same Converse and hoodie look that I once mocked my mother for, and my sense of humor remains youthful—I still laugh at my kids’ fart jokes.
Today, however, I received a diagnosis for a condition I believed only plagued the elderly. A hot, painful rash had sprouted on my back, and I learned it was shingles.
As a kid, I’d heard my grandmother suffered from this dreadful skin ailment, which shared a name with the protective material that shielded our roof during rainy days. I imagined her skin flaking off like shingles, piling up until her back resembled a rooftop.
Whenever I waited at the pharmacy, I’d often skim through the pamphlet on shingles prevention, which featured worried seniors contemplating if they should consult their doctors. I thought shingles was just another concern for the older generation, like bladder issues or brittle bones. That was until I found a burning rash creeping across my back and asked my husband for his opinion.
“Oh my God,” he gasped, supportive as ever.
“Yikes, Mom,” my teenage son chimed in, after he peeked at the commotion. “Are you dying?”
My tween daughter added her own flair, “Gross!”
With my family’s lack of sympathy, I turned to my trusty friend, Google, typing in “hot rash back lumpy.” The diagnosis? Shingles.
Shingles? Not me!
But when the nurse practitioner at the clinic took a look, her first word was “herpes.”
Herpes?! I’m too old for that!
“Herpes zoster,” she clarified. “That’s the medical term for shingles.” Fantastic.
I called my mom. “Hey, how old were you when you got shingles?”
“Shingles?” she replied, sounding confused. At 65, after raising two kids and having four grandkids, she was practically the picture of health. “You must be mistaken. I’ve never had shingles. Your grandmother, however…”
Grinding my teeth, I drove to the pharmacy where the Merck pamphlet seemed to taunt me from the rack near the blood pressure machine (by the way, mine was 166/72—good for an oldie? Or bad for a youngling?).
The pharmacist, who I’ve trusted for years, apologized for having to fill my prescription with the name brand since the generic was out of stock. “What, did everyone get shingles at once?” I joked, hoping to prove my youthful spirit.
He shook his head, whispering conspiratorially, “We’re out of generic valacyclovir because so many people are coming in for, well… you know… outbreaks.” Great, now I’m part of a secret club, and I didn’t even know it.
I grabbed some soothing products, including the Aveeno oatmeal bath and calamine lotion (along with a six-pack of Ensure for good measure).
So here I am, dealing with shingles and navigating this unexpected chapter of life. If you’re curious about home insemination, check out this intriguing post on our blog that offers some insights. And for those looking for an authority on the subject, here’s a great resource that has everything you need to know about insemination kits. You can also learn more about success rates with this helpful article.
In summary, I never imagined I’d join the ranks of shingles sufferers at such a young age. Yet here I am, navigating the trials of parenthood while tackling unexpected health issues. Life has a funny way of surprising us.