When my mother hit 43, I was a self-assured college student, and to my cynical perspective, she seemed ancient. She was a chain-smoker of menthol cigarettes, a devoted viewer of Hill Street Blues, and adored her massive Pioneer stereo system, reminiscent of a small car. My peers disagreed, often exclaiming, “She’s so young!” Their parents were mostly nearing 60 and far too conservative to indulge in smoking, dismissing Clapton because of his past with a band called Cream.
Now, at 43, I’ve become the parent of two know-it-all kids. I like to think that thanks to Miss Clairol and my stubborn blackhead, I look youthful. My wardrobe hasn’t changed much; I still sport Converse shoes and hoodies, just like when I rolled my eyes at my “old-fashioned” mother. I certainly behave younger, enjoying colorful language and giggling at my kids’ antics.
However, today I received a diagnosis for a condition I believed was reserved for the elderly. It’s on my 43-year-old back, and it hurts like crazy.
As a child, I recall hearing about my grandmother’s struggles with a skin condition called shingles, named after the protective material on our roof. I imagined her skin flaking off like a roof during a rainstorm.
While waiting at the pharmacy, I’d often flip through the pamphlet on shingles prevention, featuring elderly individuals displaying concerns ranging from worry to panic, contemplating discussions with their doctors, all thanks to Merck pharmaceuticals. I assumed shingles was a problem solely for the elderly—until I discovered a hot rash on the left side of my back and asked my husband to take a look.
“Oh my God,” he exclaimed supportively.
“Whoa, Mom,” my teenage son chimed in, “that looks disgusting. Are you dying?”
“Gross,” my tween daughter added, not to be left out.
With my family’s lack of empathy, I turned to Google, the ever-reliable source for medical inquiries, typing in “hot rash back lumpy.” The result? Shingles.
Shingles? I’m too young for that!
Yet when the nurse practitioner at the Minute Clinic examined me, her first word was “herpes.”
Herpes?!
“I mean herpes zoster,” she clarified. “The medical term for shingles.”
Great. I called my mom. “Hey, how old were you when you first got shingles?”
“Shingles?” she replied, sounding confused. At 65, after raising two kids and having four grandkids, she’s pretty much in her element. “I think you’re mistaken, Emma. I’ve never had shingles. Your grandmother, however…”
I gritted my teeth on the drive to the pharmacy, where the Merck pamphlet seemed to taunt me from its spot near the blood pressure machine (mine was 166/72. Is that good for an old person? Bad for a young one?). The pharmacist apologized for filling my prescription with the brand name, as the generic was out of stock. “Did everyone get shingles at once?” I joked, hoping to show that my sense of humor still proved my youth.
The pharmacist, a man who looked over 60, shook his head and said quietly, “We’re out of generic valacyclovir because so many people have been coming in for… you know… outbreaks.” His tone was almost conspiratorial, as if he was welcoming me into an exclusive club.
I liked him; he’s been my go-to for prescriptions for years. But really? I don’t want to belong to any club that includes him. And why did he assume I wasn’t some wild party-goer who had caught a sexually transmitted infection? Even those with a scandalous reputation wear hoodies when picking up prescriptions!
“It’s pretty painful, isn’t it?” he remarked, noticing my watery eyes. I nodded and inquired about the best products to soothe my irritated skin. “I recommend Aveeno oatmeal bath and calamine lotion,” he replied.
I bought both, along with a six-pack of Ensure—just in case.
This article was originally published on June 8, 2015.
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In summary, I have come to realize that age is just a number, and life throws unexpected challenges our way, even when we think we’re still young at heart. Shingles may have caught me off guard, but I’ll face it with humor, like the true young spirit I believe I am.