I have about four drafts incomplete that I've tried to write over the last few days. But for whatever reason, I couldn't finish them or just didn't have the will to.
I went to Nashville with Emily to see the Mountain Goats. It was incredible, but very slightly marred by the onset of what I thought was the flu. I soldiered on, drinking and eating like I was well, and the concert itself was such an experience for me that even the discomfort of standing for four straight hours didn't faze me.
Emily noticed I had a rash on my back. Sometimes my skin turns red on parts of my body in strange patterns. I thought little of it.
When I arrived home, however, I showed my mom the rash and she (being, formerly, a registered nurse) threw out a few possible diagnosis. Mercer or shingles. She doubted shingles, as it usually occurs in the elderly, but after we both did our separate research shingles was the most probable explanation.
I went to work the next day, feeling fine for the most part. It was one of the busiest days I've ever worked there, as these things tend to go. An hour into my shift I was completely out of energy and the area where the rash was burned and pain shot through my abdomen. I told my coworkers that I thought I had shingles and they let me go. I left and went to convenient care, where I waited over an hour until finally seeing a doctor.
On my chart, the reason for coming said "painful rash", which is probably why the doctor, when he grabbed the chart from the receptacle outside the room I was waiting in groaned audibly.
"Alright, let's see that rash"
I lifted my shirt and showed him. He was relieved, I'm sure, that one: my rash wasn't near my penis, and two, it was shingles instead of something far more disgusting and pus-esque.
"Yep, that's shingles. I'm going to get you a steroid shot and a course of steroids with an anti-viral" and with that he left the room and I waited for the shot.
I knew that the steroid shot would be in my butt, but never having gone through the etiquette of receiving a shot in my rear, I wasn't sure what I was to do. So I just sat on the patient table thing with the paper covering it and waited.
The nurse knocked before entering, which was curious to me. What could I have been doing that would encourage a knock? Did she begin doing this after walking intruding on someone doing something that required a knock to give time to cease the activity of? (you can blame sentences like this on David Foster Wallace, whose writing style is so contagious, but so but w/r/t, etc)
She told me the shot would be in my 'bottom', and I nodded my head in knowing acceptance. I stood, and faced her. Then I thought better of facing her. The doctors stool was behind me and I wasn't sure if she was going to sit in it while she gave me the shot in my ass. She wasn't moving, so I turned away from her and clumsily unfastened my belt and pulled my pants so only my ass was out of them, holding the front over my crouch protectively.
"1...2...3, here it comes"
A slight sting. Never quite as bad as you fear, but still a very visceral feeling, being pricked by such a fine thing, like a bee sting without the maliciousness.
"Ok, this is the painful part" I heard from behind me, and she injected the medicine. It was the worst part too, as I felt the medicine coursing through me. Similar to the rare times you actually feel things going down your throat, it was foreign, outside of the usual sensory perceptions I am bombarded with. As such, I can say it was painful, but not in the way the needle was painful or the shingles is painful. Just strange. And not wholly unpleasant, but certainly not resembling pleasantness to any degree.
She directed me to sit, and I did, though as the shot was in my ass, sitting wasn't the best way to alleviate this pain. So I sat on one ass cheek and leaned on my arm for balance. She said something about feeling woozy which made me feel woozy.
I felt the cold(? perhaps, I'm not sure. how do you describe the feeling of something inside of you, a perception of touch not on the skin?) fluid spreading out through my veins and waited for something before I left. The prescriptions, my chart, whatever. I looked at the chair next to the table/bed/patient thing where my kindle was, and made myself not forgot to grab it before I left. Everyone I talked to while holding the kindle treated it as a curious thing to have.
I left limping the place and went home. My dad was there and I told him I had shingles. He didn't understand what it was, and when I showed him the rash he expressed concern over the itchiness. I told him it didn't really itch, which just confused the issue more. Illnesses with him are very one dimensional, a rash should itch and not be caused by anything in particular, especially a virus that had previously already caused another illness. I gave up and went to my room and slept for a long time.
And over the last few days, being off work, I have done a lot of reading, but no writing at all. I blame my illness on this, though strangely, my not writing was probably predictable after my ten stories-ten days failure and cessation. The rest of the prompts are terrible, I still feel, but I will give it another go.
As for now, I will say that I'm not putting pressure on myself to continue the serious or discontinue it. Just to write, like this one, from my will to write.
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