The Fire Within — My Journey Through Shingles

Image by Ronald Plett from Pixabay

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I go out of my way to behave the exact opposite of what is expected of a person my age — much to the chagrin of my family. And even though I am a senior in years, I pride myself on feeling 25 years younger. But when shingles ambushed my body, I was stunned to discover what I was up against!

On July 2, while volunteering at the Calgary Jazz Festival, I noticed pain in my side and lower back. It felt as though the belt I was wearing was scratching my skin. But that couldn’t be — my belt was over my shirt, not under.
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The following day I noticed a few red spots on my right side, which I attributed to an allergic reaction to something I ate. But by the end of the day, I had a sneaky feeling something was up. So when a nasty rash bloomed, it became clear what I was dealing with. A disease that old people get (or so I thought) — shingles! How could someone as healthy and active as me come down with this ugly malady?

​Monday, July 4, I phoned my doctor’s office to book an emergency visit. No such luck. If you live in Alberta, you understand. She could see me in a week. That was not the answer I was looking for.

I then telephoned around to various walk-in clinics. Either they had paused walk-ins (too busy), or the wait times were two to three hours. Since I had to go shopping anyway, my husband suggested I ask the Safeway pharmacist if she might confirm what I had and recommend something.

Did you know that pharmacists can get you drugs? I sure didn’t. Ms. Pharmacist took me into the back room, wrinkled up her nose as she examined my side, confirmed that I indeed had a bad case of shingles, and filled a prescription for me. I didn’t even know they could do that! Note to self — skip the line in the future.

Ms. Pharmacist prescribed Valacyclovir Hydrochlorvir, a medication that, if taken in the first 72 hours, was supposed to reduce my period of suffering and prevent the possibility of permanent nerve damage. So I went home, a bottle of gigantic, ugly green pills in hand, confident I would be on the mend in no time.

Not quite. Two doses later, I woke up the following morning in a panic, my face hot and itchy. After one look in the bathroom mirror through swollen eyelids, I donned my sunglasses and made a mad dash back to the pharmacy. I had had an allergic reaction, and my face had blown up into a grotesque Halloween pumpkin! My not-so-unsubstantial Welsh nose was now consuming most of my face. Ms. Pharmacist’s advice was to stop taking the meds and see my doctor. I think I’m going in circles. Note to self — do not skip the line!

My husband and I decided that the in-store clinic at our local Superstore was the shortest line, so that’s where he dropped me off. An hour later, I was seen by a doctor — who was filling in for the regular doctor — and I was prescribed a numbing cream (which cost a fortune and did nothing) and lots of Tylenol 3. Her solution: take two T3s every 6 hours, two Advil every 4–6 hours, one to two Benadryl before bed and one Reactine during the day. All of this was in an effort to combat the agony I was about to be plunged into.

On a pain scale of one to ten, I give shingles a nine, inched out only by abdominal surgery during my second month of pregnancy 40 years earlier. But it was a close second!

For the next two weeks, I endured shooting pains as if being stabbed from the inside out. The rash turned into gross blisters that, thankfully, were not itchy. My skin felt like it was on fire, and it was necessary to use ice packs to bring it down to a slow burn.

Because of all the drugs, my mind was in a fog. I worked minimally on my clients’ vacations so as not to screw anything up. Writing was out of the question as words eluded me, and trying to sleep through the next few weeks of misery was all I wanted to do.

I thought I was pretty tough, but shingles was tougher. When faced with excruciating pain, day after day, night after night, week after week, I was prepared to sell my soul for relief. The round-the-clock pain and chronic nausea (oh yes, there is that too) bring on depression. During week 3, I told my husband I was contemplating jumping off the roof of our building because I didn’t think the balcony was high enough.

I was beginning to think that my time was up. My old heart was bound to give out with all the drugs I was popping. I’m not too fond of medication, and the strongest thing I usually take is my daily dose of calcium and vitamin D3. Was the Universe trying to tell me it was time to start acting my age? Please — not that!

Wouldn’t you know the weather this particular summer was one of the best Calgary had experienced in years! And here I was canceling all my summer plans — lazy walks, sunny patios, golfing, summer festivals, crafts and fresh food markets, and even my hairstylist.

By July 20, I decided that if my mind pretended I was well, I could fool my body. I said no more Tylenol 3s. Since I was allowed to take two every six hours, I was gobbling them up every four hours. For those of you who don’t know, Tylenol 3 dries up your bowels. So on top of the agony of shingles, I now had to deal with constipation. After rummaging around my kitchen, I came upon an old bottle of Restoralax hiding in the back of a cupboard — not yet expired. It eventually did the trick, and that is enough said about that.

July 21 — I refuse to take anything more substantial than Advil. No more prescription meds! I was now suffering at a pain level of 4 out of 10 — 24/7 — but I could feel tiny incremental improvements. Advil two to three times a day. Ice pack on my waist at night.

July 31 — commencing week five. I was so fed up with shingles and pain, nausea at the thought of food, lack of energy, and a lower back that was still on fire. I was scheduled to see my doctor in two days if only for her assurance that I was getting better.

August 2 and my doctor finally has time to see me. She puts me on Gabapentin which is used for people with chronic pain. Once a day for now, then two, and can be supplemented with regular Tylenol. It didn’t really help, but little is better than none.

Visiting my own doctor was an eye-opener. Why was my stomach aching, and why was I still feeling nauseous? Well, it turned out it could be all that Advil I was taking, and her advice was to stop immediately. Didn’t I know Advil eats away your stomach lining with overuse? No, I didn’t know that. Did you? So much for walk-in clinics. No more Advil was her advice — if necessary, take Tylenol.

August 16 -- Follow up with my doctor. As the pain in my stomach continues to drag on, she prescribes Pantoprazole and suggests taking Gravol Ginger to settle my tummy from all that Advil. My substantial pill collection is turning into a pharmacy.

As I neared the 5-week mark, the fire had subsided, but my torso felt like it was being rubbed raw with sandpaper every time I moved or brushed against fabric. If my husband so much as rolled over in bed, I gritted my teeth in an attempt to stop myself from kicking him to the floor!

Once again, I am trying to behave “pre-shingles normal.” The much-needed haircut has been accomplished, and one last ladies’ golf league round is scheduled for the end of the month.

August 22, and this is where my shingles journey ends. I now suffer from postherpetic neuralgia (PHN). This is when nerve pain continues even after shingles has departed. It can last for weeks, months, or in some people, years. My pain is about 1 or 2 out of 10, but I still feel slightly depressed and get brief, strange pangs of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I have read this is par for the course.

Is it possible to get shingles again? You bet! So I will be coughing up the $300 plus for the vaccine in three months as I never want to go through this again. It isn’t covered under Alberta Health Care — even if you are a senior. Outrageous that the most likely to get shingles are also the ones who can least afford the vaccine. I will be having a chat with my provincial MLA about that.
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My active life has been altered as I patiently wait for the mild, constant pain and fatigue to depart. I can only hope I am not one of those people who will suffer for years.
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(originally published for Crow's Feet: Life As We Age)