Let’s talk about shingles. No, not those protecting your house, but the evil ones lurking within. You’ve probably seen the commercial on TV in which the deep-voiced man intones, “Shingles Doesn’t Care,” designed to spook you straight to your doctor.
Having recently endured and still not completely recovered from shingles, I am eminently qualified to be the ambassadress for Shingrix, the two-dose shingles vaccine. I am the Dr. Fauci of shingles.
The commercial implies that your back or torso will be afflicted and covered in oozing lesions, and while those images may appear melodramatic to you, I find them insufficiently dire. Also, it’s not restricted to your midsection.
Shingles is a form of herpes – not the one-night-stand type; rather, even less than the level of contagion Michael Scott’s cold sore hosted in “The Office.” You can’t catch shingles from another person, only yourself, ticking time bomb style. If you’ve never had chickenpox, you’re off the hook. If you have, my goal is to scare you straight to your nearest Shingrix dispensary. My dermatologist friend, Kathy, summed it up in one sentence, “It’s a deep pain because your nerve endings are on fire, and nothing can touch it.”
Let’s start with a little etymology. Herpes comes from the Greek herpein (to creep). The Spanish term is la culebrilla (little snake). My shingles slithered all the way up to my right eye, culminating in an icepick headache that lasted nearly a month, which is to say I did not sleep for a month – at least not in the restorative, pleasant way to which I was accustomed. From time to time I would simply shut down, the way your phone does when you don’t charge it. On January 5 I made it to the ER where the triage nurse noticed immediately the little scab on my forehead and said it looked like shingles. “Can’t be,” I said, with bravura as I’d had the shots. Alas, the round I had was the 2017 version and about as effective as dousing yourself with Off! in May and marveling at a mosquito bite in August.
As my shingles presented with an eyeball ready to explode, I was off to my new ophthalmologist, Dr. O’Neill. After four or five visits, I informed him that in many cultures we’d be formally engaged. I’m still seeing him and, lovely as he is, I really want to break up with him.
One of Dr. O’Neill’s techs told me that I have what David Letterman had in 2003, leaving him off the air and in seclusion for over a month. Google his Top Ten Things About Shingles list. Spoiler alert: There’s only one item, and most of it is bleeped out.
Not abundantly freaked out yet?
A month in, my hair began to fall out. Not enough for Will Smith to come to my rescue, but enough to clog my shower drain. But, hey, shingles doesn’t care.
Get the shots, and may the force of Shingrix be with you.
– Dorothy
