Two days ago, I woke up a seven year old. It was either that, or I woke up in the year 1953. I woke up with a rash. Later, I would be told I woke up with the measles. (But that bit of information doesn’t come until the end of this very long story.)
I had a sore throat on Sunday. A bitty one, which gave me this tiny cough, that took place nearly every time I swallowed. It bugged me. It sucked. But I dealt with it. Sunday night, my upper arms started to show small bumps. You couldn’t see the rash, but you could feel it. But we thought nothing much of it at the time as I am allergic to everything.
On Monday, the rash had spread to my lower back. The bumps there were a little bit itchy. But it wasn’t too annoying. I thought nothing of it, still.
On Monday night, the rash was ALL OVER my torso. It had spread to my tummy as well. I began to think something of it.
On Tuesday, I felt like a leper. And so a doctor visit was in order.
I must have called 15 doctors in our area. Either I was ignored and sent into some phone ringing cyber space, or I left messages never to be returned. Finally, some clinic in East Williamsburg said they could see me at 2. I headed over there and am still wishing that I hadn’t.
(I’ll try and give you a condensed version.) I walked into the clinic. Pregnant women surrounded me. They tossed the word