Chicken Pox. The mere mention of it sent terror through a household. The state of medical research in the 50's was, well, not as advanced. So, as a four year old boy living in Augusta, Ga., I was put in a dark room (in some cases, there is a sensitivity to light), and quarantined. That, in itself, was terrifying. Of course, having measles and mumps was no walk in the park, either. But it is one of the few memories I can clearly see in the mind's eye from early in childhood.
Apparently, when one has chicken pox, or vericella zoster as it's called by the medical community, the body's immune system will eventually crush the virus. In many cases, the virus just goes into hiding, or dormant, and stays there. Often, in later life, the little booger gets a wakeup call from somewhere and rears its ugly head. This, my friends, is called "shingles". This is a holy terror reserved for those getting on in years. Getting on in years, for those in their twenties and thirties, is when you race (at the speed of light) through your 50's and beyond.
This week, I felt a rough patch on my back above my right shoulder. It was tingling but I thought at first it was from all the sun I've gotten while painting the house. Then, I began to obsess that I had skin cancer. I remember my father getting little cancers cut out of his skin every so often. I mentally inventoried my life insurance policies. I called my Doctor and got in immediately. Dr. Schramm, an excellent diagnostician, came into the room, saw me reading a statistical review of cancer cases in the United States, looked at my shoulder and said dispassionately, "Ah, shingles." I showed him the cancer magazine and he shook his head and simply said, "No." While greatly relieved, I asked him what this meant, this "shingles" diagnosis.
"Well, it's obviously a mild case. Any itching?" "Not much - just tingling", I replied. I showed him the pea-sized place on my right wrist and he just sat down at the computer and typed in "dermatologic" and then "vericella zoster". He prescribed acyclovir, an antiviral and a skin cream. As I walked out, my wife, Steffi called. "Well, how did it go?" she asked. "I've got six minutes to live," I replied. She didn't laugh. "No, I've got a mild case of shingles." "How do you feel?" she queried. "Like climbing up on the roof and laying in an integrated pattern," I joked. She repeated it for her friend, Candice. That did get some guffaws.
Some I told of my malady looked at me like I had told them I had six minutes to live. They all had stories of untold misery and suffering of their family and / or friends. My only comment was that I may have lucked out, as it wasn't all that bad. My next question to them was if they had ever had chicken pox. You see, apparently, most people having had chicken pox built up an immunity against vericella zoster. But no, not me. My vericella zosters were were just laying in the weeds (ganglia, to those with an interest in accuracy), ready to fire back into the blood stream at the most opportune time. This, as it turns out, is the opportune moment for attacking my nervous system for Mr. Zoster.
Thankfully, having gotten in early to my doctor and getting on the anti-viral meds, I should be OK inside of a week. The term "shingles", however, evokes such a horrific specter of pain and discomfort, I'm probably going to avoid all social contact for the term of this infection. Having found out about my disease, the usual suspects who stop by the house will suddenly have all kinds of excuses about not coming by. I understand.
There are a hundred reasons not to get involved in most of the contemporary venues available on the internet. The most compelling reason is that it can become a terrible waste of time. Sometimes, it becomes addictive. My daughter and friends spend a lot of time texting, tweeting, facebooking, evite-ing and so forth. I think back to my 20's and try to remember what it would have been like to have that facility. I suppose because of time, when I think back to that era I would probably have found a use for being able to contact anyone on the planet at any given time of the day and let them know exactly what I thought of them, or, what I was doing at that instant. On the other hand, I'm not sure anyone, including me, would have cared.
Which brings me to Facebook. This docking station in Cyberspace interested me for purely business reasons, not to miss any chance for networking mind you, back last fall. After a few days, I just didn't see the profit in it. After some prodding by my friend, Jeff, I reactivated my account a couple of months ago. To my surprise and incredulity, I found several of my best buds from my youth. Yesterday, I had the opportunity to meet with one of them, Phil Miller, for the first time in 35 years. It was two of the best hours I have spent in some time. It was also just like we'd seen each other last week. Some stories of course, one or the other has long repressed from memory. It's better for one's self-image. Other tales brought out laughter and warmth long forgotten.
Phil is now a minister, married to his high school sweetheart, Linda (36 years) with 3 children and umpteen grandchildren. He looked fit and healthy. We plan on getting together soon to let the wives meet. I may even go up to his church and sit on the back pew, making sound effects like we did in class in high school. How unnerving it will be to hear a coyote wail during the singing of "Bringing in the Sheaves". It will probably be the first time the deacons have ever had to eject a visitor from the sanctuary. I won't go quietly.
Another close friend from that time in my life, Paul Eifler, showed up on Facebook and we've had a telephone conversation and plan to get together soon. Paul, too, now has children and grandchildren, lives in lovely Hartwell, Georgia and is quite content. He is an HVAC contractor and we commiserated about the dearth of economic activity in home building. He survived two heart attacks and now lives a healthy lifestyle. I plan on getting those details from him at our meeting.
Then, Mike Thwaites, another close friend, popped up and we're making plans to get together soon to rehash the last 30 years. Mike practices law, has two grown children and is still married to his childhood sweetheart, Jennie.
Of course, there's always the part of the conversation when one or the other of you finds out that so-and-so died. Some of those so-and-so's were people we both cared about. Some were not mourned so deeply. They will, however, forever be 20-something in our memories, unlike ourselves, who now show the effects of aging and our rough and tumble youth.
With all of my complaining about the inane nature of some of the technological advances in communication, this has been one that has truly meant a world of difference to me. The only problem is that time has blurred the pictures of what people you knew looked like. Facebook suggests, from your information, people you might know and want to reconnect with. I sometimes stare at a picture and know that I recognize the face or name but can't remember the context. Those, for the sake of time, I skip. After all, that might be the one person I unintentionally injured emotionally at some point.
I must say that Facebook has been rewarding- not in the way I originally thought, but certainly in a way more important than hitting on an old friend for a job.
Recently, my neighbor, Gene, asked me if I had any interest in working security at a Paul McCartney concert in Piedmont Park. Of course, my advancing age and lack of tone made me somewhat curious why he would ask me. "No," he said, "You're not required to carry a gun or anything like that." That was a relief. I asked him what was required of the security personnel. He told me that you wore a shirt marking you as a staff member and basically, went where they told you to go.
You see, Gene had, years ago, done this for Alex Cooley, a big concert promoter here in Atlanta. He's seen and met hundreds of musicians and to his credit, being a 3rd degree black belt gave him the incentive and means to conduct such an enterprise. Basically, according to Gene, you escort musicians, stand in front of the stage, etc. for a very long day. They feed you and make sure you're not drunker than the crowd. I was doubtful but now he's ordered my shirt and I feel like it will be fun. I'll wear my good shoes.
I have, however, become concerned with my lack of, ahem, physical presence so I will pump iron for a couple of weeks to at least look like I can stop someone who hurls themselves at the stage. I think in reality, I'll stick close to Gene. I can put on a pretty intimidating visage, according to those who know me. But if push comes to shove, I'd prefer to have Gene throw a side kick into the offender's torso. Then, I can stand by and keep looking like I'm intimidating.
Paul McCartney must be paying off his settlement with that weird ex-wife. Poor guy. He must be down to, what, $50 million by now? It will be hard to avoid shouting things like: "Hey Paul, dated any one-legged women lately?" Or, "Why did you ever put a microphone in front of Linda?" In truth, I'll probably be guarding a statue or an umbrella stand. Still, it's pretty exciting getting a chance to be that close to someone that I idolized as a pubescent kid. I won't mention the sagging jowls and wrinkles if he doesn't.....
Posts
