This summer has been absolutely wonderful and, at the same time, not the best summer of my life. A perfect example of this is happening right now. The weekend began seemingly innocently. Friday night I got a sore throat. It was no big deal, really. On Saturday we attended our granddaughter’s 12th birthday party. It was so much fun and we stayed through the bonfire that evening. About 30 minutes after getting home I found I have Fungus Amungus with Creeping Crud.
Fungus Amungus with Creeping Crud is real! Protect your children!
Okay. Maybe it’s just a name I came up with but the rash is definitely real!
We had just settled down for the night when my hands started to itch like crazy. There were tiny, hard bumps all over them. I thought I must have somehow touched poison ivy although none grows on Pete & Andi’s deck or in the house. Perhaps one of the kids had it on his or her clothes and I touched it that way. Note to self: Never touch children. I didn’t know it then but I had Fungus Amungus with Creeping Crud.
I slathered on a cortisone cream and hoped for the best. But the fates and I have an adversarial relationship. It was not poison ivy which was the good news. The bad news was it was spreading fast and by Sunday evening it my arms, feet, and legs were broken out. Being resourceful I knew how to handle it. I sharpened a fork and spent the hours digging into the itchy spots. Mr. Comfortable tried to help by hollering “Stop scratching it!” every few minutes.
Little did I know this was only the beginning of the rash on my feet and legs!
On Monday I thought about drowning myself in a tub full of Aveeno® but the big tub is still full of ducks. Mr. C was still on his silly “Don’t scratch” crusade so I began surreptitiously scratching using the side of the bed, the dogs’ nails, and every fabric-covered piece of furniture in the house. I doused myself in lotion until I looked like a pink, bumpy nightmare. Our granddaughter, Estrella was here to “help.” She’s 8 and a girl. That means she talks. Eileen came to pick her up so I wouldn’t do something rash (no pun intended). And Eileen told me the rash looked viral to her. I had honestly never heard of that.
Fungus Amungus with Creeping Crud means I don’t want solid food.
I drank gallons of tea and pots of soup for the sore throat which had gotten progressively worse. I lost my voice which I’m sure Mr. C was secretly delighted about. Until I started sending him instant messages about everything, that is. His phone began to smoke with the effort of keeping up with my non-stop barrage of requests, complaints, and announcements that I had died.
Tuesday I could stand it no longer. I made Mr. C call the doctor and I was delighted to hear there was an appointment available in 30 minutes. Mr. Comfortable wanted to argue because it takes about 40 minutes to get there and we weren’t dressed. One gentle, persuading look from me convinced him to haul tail and we made it just on time. His sense of self-preservation is astounding.
I’d written the timeline of symptoms for the doctor. There was no way I was going to try to talk with my throat full of razor blades. The doc read the list and looked at the rash. Then she pronounced it a viral rash. Eileen knows everything! The doctor prescribed a lidocaine rinse for my sore throat and told me to keep taking antihistamines for the itching. She ordered blood tests but told me that she didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary to reveal itself.
I showed her the note I’d sent to Mr. C explaining that it was Ebola, herpesgonnoshypilaids, and possibly fleas. I showed her the symptom checker I’d consulted so she’d realize I had meningitis, Crohn’s disease, tularemia, and the other 32 diseases it had diagnosed me as having. She mentioned that since I rarely leave my property and almost never leave the county some of the diseases were “unlikely.” She was certain it is a simple case of Fungus Amungus with Creeping Crud. It’s causing nerve pain in my hands and that irks me. It’s hard to play games on my phone when my fingers hurt (random complaint just because Mr. C is out and I need sympathy which Remy and Henry aren’t giving me).
Then she said the words that made my heart stop. “It’ll go away in about a week. If it doesn’t, call me.” A week? A WEEK!? She had to be kidding! In a week I’ll have scratched myself to the bone. In a week the bumps will leave me looking like the Elephant Man!
I’m contagious so I am not allowed to cook. The doctor doesn’t want me forgetting to leave gloves on and spreading Fungus Amungus with Creeping Crud to Mr. C. In my saner moments I agree but there are times when he’s sitting there, itch-free, that I secretly want to throw my diseased body on his and rub the rash on his exposed skin. Take that! But then I’d have to wait on him hand and foot like he has been for me and I’m not up to that.
So I have to put up with my Fungus Amungus with Creeping Crud until it decides it’s tortured me sufficiently. I’ll drink tea and eat soup and try in vain not to scratch. I’ll give up my sharpened fork so I don’t use it on my rash or on Mr. C when he cheerfully tells me, “It’s going to take a while, Honey. Fungus Amungus with Creeping Crud doesn’t clear up overnight. You’ll be fine.” It’s in these moments, when he’s doing his best to comfort me that I wonder if his parents were ever actually married.