After a fabulous Thanksgiving dinner with our sister-in-law, her husband and our niece and nephew as well as their family friends, Jerry and I left their home around 7 p.m.
Jerry agreed to stop at Kohl’s (which opened its doors at 6 p.m.) so I could do some early Black Friday shopping. After all, it was on our way home. “I’ll run in and run out,” I told Jerry. Before saying good-bye to our very special and dear sister-in-law Julie, she cautioned, “Kohl’s will be very crowded.”
“Bronwyn, call the cops!” Jerry hollered across the parking lot.
Jerry and I had stopped at the post office. I had just rushed inside to pick up a package while Jerry waited in the car. As I exited, I heard someone calling my name rather loudly. Is there another Bronwyn somewhere nearby? I didn’t know what to think.
That’s when I noticed Jerry standing in the middle of the parking lot, his face red with smoke pouring out of his ears.
What’s going on? I had left him seated calmly in the car. What had happened?
Life stops when you’re in pain.
“Aren’t you glad you don’t have to go to work?” Jerry says, hoping to make me feel better, reminding me that suffering shingles has its good points. I admit, the knowledge I’m free of the guilt that comes with calling in sick and letting your boss down because of a drawn-out illness, does ease my pain slightly.
‘Yes, Jerry,” I say. “That’s one good thing.”
I’m pretty much over the sickness that comes with shingles; the fever, the headaches, the muscle aches. I still have the itchy, blotchy red rash, the slashing-knife, nerve pain, and the tiredness. Advil helps, but I don’t want to take it the rest of my life. I’m into the third week as the shingles drag on. I’ve lived in my pajamas the entire time, since clothing causes misery and pajamas are less constricting.