A Pox on Me!

A couple of years ago I had the chicken pox. I think I may have caught it while temping at a hospital. Fucking hospital. Apparently, the sickness is dormant for a while before popping up as little hivey-looking bumps all around your body and face. This was right around the holidays when I and my entire family trekked down to southern California to spend Christmas with my sister and her family in her huge, new house in Ventura. I made it through Christmas feeling peachy and even managed to spend a lovely New Years in Santa Barbara with friends from college.

On my way back to Ventura from Santa Barbara, I decided that it would be fun to sneak in a couple of hours of “alone”time in before returning to yet another house full of people. Friends and family, I love you to death, but I needs my alone time! I ducked into a theater and caught Gangs of New York. It was packed. And later I realized, I was packing. The chicken pox, that is. Already headachy and sore all over, I thought my body was reacting to the hustle-and-bustle of the holidays, with the running around, the shopping and the eating, the entertaining. To this day, I wonder how many people I must have infected by walking into thatcrowded theater. I am officially sending out my apologies via the Internet. I’m sorry! My bad!

Feeling like crap, I lifted my arms while my sisters inspected my naked torso. They counted up the little hivey things (63) and jabbed a few with a pen, for what purpose, I’m not sure, I guess it seemed like the thing to do.

“Did Milan have cats?”
“No cats.”
“Was her house dusty?”
“No dust.”
“Did you eat anything weird?”
“Well, there was a cheese ball covered in nuts that I picked at…” That’s not what she meant, I know that now.
“Uh…then I don’t know. Girl, you’re SOL.”

So much for their clinical diagnosis. At this point, my feelings of crappiness were increasing exponentially and after 12 or so days of people all up in my grill 24/7, all I wanted to do was go home to Oakland and sleep in my own bed with my own pillows and my own dust mites. Thank God I had a plan to drive back to northern California instead of flying. The thought of possibly infecting a plane load of people would have thrown me into a guilt-ridden tailspin. Better was my plan to drive back to Oakland, behind the wheel of my parents new Lexus, hopped up on Benadryl and the sugar from a pound bag of chocolate trail mix (you know, a “healthy snack”).

If you’ve ever ridden in a Lexus, you must agree that that is one smooth ride! Driving it at 90 mph is the same experience except your foot is ever-so-lightly resting on the gas pedal. I actually felt like I was floating up Interstate 5. But in reality, I was half-asleep from the meds. By some miracle, I arrived in Oakland, casualty-free, and rolled into bed.

The doctor told me I was contagious and may be a danger to pregnant women and old people and that I had to be quarantined. “Oh God. How long?” “Till the last scab falls off.” What the hell kind of answer was that? It sounded like some lame movie dialogue: “Teacher, how will I know when I’m ready?” “When the last cherry blossom falls to the ground.” I was so miserable.

I stayed in my apartment for approximately one month and had to rely on my friends for food and DVDs. They’d buzz me, I’d let them into the building,they’d come up and leave groceries at my door and I’d talk tothem through an inch-wide crack at my front door. That was the extent of my social interaction with people. This was my ironic hell. I said I wanted some alone time…I got my alone time.

As much I think I am an independent creature, self-sufficient, don’t need anyone or anything because I hate people…depression and loneliness set in pretty damn quick. The view of my growing stomach from the laying down position on my couch became very familiar. After a while, I asked my friends to forgo bringing me real food and just drop off chocolate. Bars. Bags. Cheap stuff, expensive stuff. I didn’t care. Just bring it.A nd forget what I said about denying me chocolate no matter how much I pleaded. That was crazy talk, I was on the Benadryl and obviously delirious. In retrospect, this was not a good idea and I paid for it later at the gym, with hours and hours of working off the “pox weight”.

I wish I could say I emerged from my apartment with a renewed appreciation for life and some sort of enlightenment. But I came out more grumpy and pissed off than ever, with pock marks all over my face and body and an extra fifteen fucking chocolate-induced pounds.