I'm Dyin' Here!!!

It started on Thursday with pins and needles stabbing my upper back. Every whisper and creep of fabric brought torture. Something was wrong with my skin. I blamed Walmart for the cheap detergent. Those bastards.

I should probably mention that while I have no fear of doctors, I have no love for them, either. I've nurtured a high pain threshold since childhood ( it runs in the family), so I tend to give minor ailments a while to work themselves out.

By Friday the pain had spread to my chest and arms. Same M.O.: clothing was killing me, but I'd moved on to hidden molds and bacteria as the root of the problem. I cursed the bathtub (and Walmart).

By Saturday, my entire torso was consumed by the fiery sensitivity from Hell. And yes, I do mean my entire torso. Yeah yeah, the dirty bits, too. I blamed nerve damage. Meningitis. Skin Cancer. Walmart.


I woke on Sunday with an odd throbbing in my thighs. My ass screamed as though I'd ridden the Tour de France. The skin pain spread. I remembered a medical factoid. The largest organ in the body? The skin. I'd seen it stripped off a human at The Bodies exhibit. It laid there on lucite; in one piece. I wondered if it was sensitive. I wished someone would strip mine.

I made the mistake of visiting WebMD. Hell, I like to self diagnose. Why not supplant my pain with paralyzing fear of the actual possibilities. I put in my symptoms:

• skin irritation and pain
• no visible rash
• tenderness of the genitals (this is a horror tale)
• pain during urination (see?)

Their program listed out 20 possibilities most of them std's, which is impossible because (1) I'm faithful, (2) my wife and I are always together, and (3) I'm a clean freak. I settled on Cellulitis, an infection of the skin and soft tissues, that can spread throughout the body through the blood stream. My favorite bit: if left untreated can lead to a need for surgical intervention.

Goddamn You Sam Walton!!!

It's Monday. The cellulitis (I'm sure now) has made it to the pads of my feet and it's painful to walk. I've had to break down; I called the doctor, the one I haven't seen in fifteen years. After much rigmarole and a thorough tongue lashing by the insurance lady, I scheduled an appointment.

11:30 is coming quick.

Pray to your Gods. Wish. Ponder "The Secret". Burn down your local Walmart. Whatever it takes to get your faithful blogger through this time of exaggerated crisis.

Thank you.

Comments

Anonymous said…
Many condolences, Mark. That sounds horrible. My husband had a bout of shingles last year, and what you describe sort've sounds like the symptoms he had. I hope it goes away soon, whatever it is.

Heather

p.s. you sure it's not some bizarre alien zombie disease? I heard something like that might be going around.
December/Stacia said…
I was thinking shingles, too. Or alien zombie disease.You haven't found any unexplained bites anywhere, have you?

Maybe you should track down Dr. House.

Hope you get some answers and feel better.
Mark said…
Heather and Stace (may I call you Stace?),

Thank you for your sincere and oh so sensitive concern as to what maybe the beginning of the last great zombie outbreak. 'Cause if I'm the first to get it, you better believe I'm gonna share.

As it turns out, I'm completely insane (please review the new post, oddly titled: I'm Completely Insane).

Thank you for your time,

Sincerely,
Scrotal Burn aka Mark
Joe said…
I think if Shirley Manson were here (and when isn't she, in spirit?) she might encapsulate your conundrum thusly:

"If flesh could crawl
My skin would fall
Right off my bones
and run away from here,
as far from God
as heaven is wide."

And even if this doesn't really fit your current mileau, remember, A) the surgeon general has not yet linked putting horror novels in your mouth to any of the symptoms you described and B) The rotted corpse of Sam Walton is shambling his way toward you even as we speak.
Mark said…
Sam Walton can kiss my throbbing rectum, but not French. That tongue's probably dry like jerky.

In other news...

Your book is staring at me. Taunting. It's aware I have to finish The Time Traveller's Wife for my book club before I can read it. It's laughing at me. It knows from it's shiny del rey emblazoned cover to its tiny vendetta font (suspiciously named) that Audrey Niffenegger's beautiful prose is boring me to suicidal thoughts.
Joe said…
Little pieces of EAT THE DARK are already coming true. I don't know how much to make of this, but it started with the Thomas the Toxic Tank Engine recall (you'll see) and later progressed with the report I saw on Boing Boing today about a convict who was brought in for an MRI, killed the guard and escaped.

How many parts of the Time Traveller thingie have come true so far, huh? Except for that part about the time travel.
Mark said…
Time travel is so '87. How much time should I really devote to pondering whether Henry (MC) has created a paradigm or a conundrum by going back in time one week to 69 himself?
December/Stacia said…
Of course you can call me Stace. Everybody I know in real life does.

(Of course, I may just decide to call you "Scro", short for "Scrotal Burn". Which is either a really cool, badass nickname for a mobster with specific talents in torture, or a really lame nickname for, say, someone who's very bad at blow jobs.) (Hey, it says above this blog is rated NC-17!)
Mark said…
As is yours, Stace. As is yours. I checked. Your blog is definitely NC-17. You know why? 'Cause you're dirty, Stace. Dirty.

As for my new nickname, Scro, all I can say is: I do have pretty course stubble.

See what you make me do. You make me NC-17.

Shame.
December/Stacia said…
I think "You make me NC-17" is one of the best compliments ever.

Diiiirty.