Jinx: Chapter Two

Before we begin, I'd like to warn you that this post contains some content of a graphic nature. If you have no interest in hearing about the health problems my "delicate bits" have encountered over the past few months, stop right after "dream catchers."

Dudes, in the interest of full disclosure, there's something I have to tell you: I am listening to Demi Lovato of Disney Channel's "Camp Rock" fame right now. And it didn't even happen by accident. It's not like I was looking at some snarky blog devoted to lambasting whatever girl the "cute" Jonas is dating this week, and my hand slipped over the link to her new single. I just suddenly found myself thinking, "Hey, you know what would be awesome to listen to right now? Someone who's voice sounds like what would happen if Avril Lavigne swallowed a rainbow cloud full of Lisa Frank panda bears, and who looks like a teen-aged American Girl doll. I better get me some Demi, stat!" That doesn't really have anything to with anything. I just thought you should know in case you find this post lacking some of my usual bite. If I can't find the energy to make any good jokes, it's because I'm mesmerized by the dulcet tones of what can only be an electric guitar made of cotton candy and dream catchers.

Also, I wanted to provide you with that bouncy sparkly YouTube link because I thought it might help to balance out the dark tale I am about to tell. As most of you know, I have a long history with jinxes and curses. For most of my adult life, I couldn't get from point A to point B without some hexed talisman of doom -- ranging from plane tickets to underwear -- waylaying me somehow. And yet, in the past year, I've ridden on a number of planes without having to pay hundreds of dollars to fix any stupid mistakes. I was beginning to think I was through with curses all together!

I should know better by now, shouldn't I?

Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to the new, darker cloud over my life's journey: the health care curse. (Or, if you're my mother, you call it "selective hypochondria." But again: potato, potahto). I've already written about my first medical emergency in this blog, but I didn't know then that that incident merely marked the emergence of a larger pattern.

Shortly after I arrived in Baltimore, I noticed a sore growing on my...well I'm a nice Midwestern girl who's been conditioned to blush at any words more dirty sounding than "uvula" and "masticate". So, let's just say it was on my "hope chest." OK, you know what? Never mind. Calling it that is even yuckier than just saying that it was on my breast, which is where it was. Anyway. At first, I tried that good ole' Minnesota method used for dealing with everything in the heartland from cold sores to interpersonal conflict: Ignore it and it will go away. After two or three months though, it became clear that the traditions of my beloved lake land had failed me. Instead of going away, it got worse. I had no choice but to take action.

So, naturally, I thought: "well, I could spend a few hours figuring out how health insurance works (Seriously Obama! What's taking so long?), track down a clinic that will admit me and then get off my ass and actually go there...OR I could stay in bed and anonymously consult thousands of idiots at once who have no idea what they're talking about. Also, my fear of death is pretty much neck-and-neck with my fear of doctors. Hmm...Internet it is!" My first few Google passes were unsuccessful due to my reluctance to type icky words like "breast" or "areola" into the engine. When my vague, dainty searches for things like "rather embarrassing medical dilemma" did not yield the results I wanted, I was forced to get a little more specific. What I found then was troubling, to say the least.

Now kids, we all know that the internet is good at many things. Finding instructions for how to build a cake shaped like a pony; watching videos of babies wrestling cats; and trying to figure out where you recognize ubiquitous 90's actor Steve Zahn from; are all things the internet is great for. Turns out, the internet is also really good at convincing you that you have a terminal illness. After a bit of poking through forums and google answers, the internet had convinced me that it was most definitely one of two things: Either I needed to take a break from breastfeeding, or I had cancer. Since I haven't ever breastfed anyone that I can think of, I felt pretty confident diagnosing myself as a terminal case.

So I called my mother. I thought she might like to know. When I told her my woefull story, she calmly informed me that it was statistically improbable that someone my age had breast cancer. In retort, I quoted the story -- as told by medicalhorrorstories.com -- of the girl who was diagnosed with three or four rare forms of cancer at age 19. My mother did not seem as concerned with this concrete evidence of my incurable condition as I was. She just made me promise to stop doing independent internet "research." She also suggested I see an actual doctor.

Since my mother is always right, I set out the next morning to take her advice. But, I was hampered by the fact that all my knowledge of America's health care system comes from what I've seen on Grey's Anatomy, where they wouldn't deal with a small blemish like mine unless it had grown a heartbeat and a tiny pair of teeth. What kind of doctor did I even need to see? A general practitioner? A mammary specialist? A world famous neurosurgeon with great hair and a sordid sexual history with half the nurses at Seattle Grace??? My mother had suggested a clinic with an urgent care facility, so I tried calling a few of those first. Though the first few had never even heard of my insurance provider, I got lucky when I called the place that had seen me for my twisted ankle. It was an hour long bus ride away, but I was just relieved to know that my insurance card had not, as I was beginning to suspect, been cut out of the back of a cereal box.

Once I got there, everything went pretty smoothly. Nobody flicked my insurance card or held it up to the light to see if I'd forged it with magic marker. The doctor I saw informed me I probably had a staph infection. She scheduled a mammogram (just to be safe), prescribed two antibiotics and some non-stick bandages, and sent me on my way.If it didn't look like it was getting better in two weeks, she said I should come back in.

The end.

Just kidding! What, you believed me? You think I got it right on the first try? HAVE WE MET? No. Of course it wasn't any better in two weeks. If anything it was worse. Logically, at this juncture -- after having been informed by the Patient First nurse I spoke to on the phone that I was already on the strongest antibiotics available -- I assumed that whatever I had was incurable. The fact that the Patient First doctor referred me to a "specialist" when I went back in did little to dissuade me from this opinion. Come on. I've seen Discovery Health. If you can show me one episode of "Medical Mysteries" that doesn't contain some variation of the phrase, "we saw every specialist in the country, but no one could figure out what was wrong!" I will give you a dollar. My prospects were looking dim, but at least I didn't have to see another doctor for two weeks while I was waiting for my appointment to arrive.

Until, of course, I woke up three days later with nifty rash all over my body. When I discovered it, my first thought was, "Seriously? I've come down with ANOTHER degenerative skin disease? What a horrible coincidence!" Shortly though, it occurred to me that this new symptom was probably connected to one of the medicines I was taking. Sure enough, when I checked my prescriptions, there was "sudden rash or hives" right next to "heart palpitations" under, "Seek immediate medical attention if you develop..."

This was when I became certain that I was going to die. I figured the rash was only phase one. During phase two, by throat would close up, and phase three was probably heart explosion. When I called my boss to let her know that I couldn't come in that day due to the fact that I only had a few hours to live, she offered to give me a ride to the doctor's office. I accepted. This was a good decision for a number of reasons. One was that I didn't want to waste any of my dwindling moments on Baltimore public transit. Another was that Pastor Alice's years of service as a priest in the inner city have made her exceptionally adept at dealing with hysterical people. When I got in her car, we had something like the following conversation:

Pastor Alice: "Are you crying?"

Me: "No..." sniff. "Maybe."

Pastor Alice: "You're going to be fine. I've had bad reactions to plenty of antibiotics before. It's not a big deal."

Me: "sniff."

Pastor Alice: "Have you called your mother?"

Me: "No. I figured they'd do it for me after they admit me to the hospital."

Pastor Alice: "Sigh."

Needless to say, Pastor Alice was right. When I got back to Patient First, I saw a new doctor who made no mention of hospitalizing me or calling my next of kin. She told me that one of the antibiotics I was on was notorious for causing negative reactions in patients. The rash would go away on its own in a few days as long as I stopped taking the drugs. When she took a look at my original problem, she didn't think it was a staph infection and prescribed a steroid cream. Once I was out of the doctor's office, I called my very loving mom who told me that I should feel free to let her know the next time I think I'm dying -- even before a medical professional tells me I'm not.

Thank goodness, the cream worked almost instantly. I kept my appointment with the "specialist" though, who confirmed once and for all that I did NOT have cancer. She also told me not to trust the internet, which I'm 75 percent sure my mother paid her to say.

Oh, and she said that if I continued to have problems, I should consult a dermatologist. Do those guys advertise on Craigslist or the sides of buses? 'Cause if they don't, I'm gonna have to make a few calls. Has anyone seen the number for my phone-a-psychic?