Are you there god? It's me MRSA.
And I have MRSA. On my face.
That pretty much sums it up.
Thanks, good night, god bless and drive home safely folks.
I need a new name for this blog
Today, Thursday, I went in for my follow up appointment and was informed by the good Dr. Jeff Ashley that while my test came back positive for MMSA Staphylococcus aureus, IT WAS NOT positive for MRSA Staphylococcus aureus.
For those of you who don’t keep up with latin and/or doctor speak, I have a regular staph infection (though, I like to call it Staph Classic, sort of a tip of the hat to the gone but never forgotten star beverage of the 1980s, New Coke™).
So, to recap: I still have an open wound that weeps pus on my facer but I don’t have SuperSized antibiotic resistant Staph weeping pus on my face.
Ladies and gentlemen, crazy has left the building.
I can now stop obsessively cleaning my house (this includes: wiping down doorknobs & switchplates, sanitizing every surface in the home, washing towels & linens once-a-day - yes, stripping the bed every, single day).I can cut-down on O.C.D.-style hand washing to roughly 23 or 30-times-a-day from about, oh 60 or 70.
- I can cook food in my kitchen without worrying that it’s UNCLEAN.
- Also worth noting, I can shave, pluck, wear makeup and generally go-to-town in the grooming department.
- And finally, I can seek solace and succor at the furry bosom of my critters once more.
By the way, is it really so wrong to talk about my pets collective bosom?
My anxieties go to eleven
One thing I’ve noticed since this little adventure began is becoming increasingly anxious about the slightest bump, or itch or red-spot on my rather voluminous body.
Imagine if you could not scratch an itch for fear it might abrade your skin enough so that a lurking predator, like staph-a could set in. Now, add to that some personal grooming tasks. No eyebrow plucking, no leg shaving, no shaving anywhere - it ain’t pretty but then again neither is my face.
When I lay down at night, I am beset by this sort of suggestible or pyschosomatic itchiness and the accompanying anxiety thoughts (is it more MRSA? why am I freaking out over a random itch? why am does my inner-dialogue NEVER FUCKING PAUSE) plague me until I drift off. Last night, I took an Ambien™.
It is like my normal level of neuroses, ‘cept it goes to 11!
Tuesday’s with gory
Oy vey, the painful swelling, will it ever cease?
I slept all the way through the night which was a blessing. As my spiritual leader Ralph Wiggum once put it, “Oh boy, sleep! That’s where I’m a viking!” Then again, he also said, “Me fail English? That’s unpossible.”
oh Ralph, I love you so!
If Monday was a day wholly devoted to Western medicine then Tuesday was a day dedicated their Eastern counterparts. The day was spent in pursuit of things such as Tea Tree Oil (so much stinging), Oregano Oil (even more stinging) for gargling, topical use and ingestion, and Manuca Honey - which I can never seem to recall the name of when I am in the health-food store.
It was a merciful (no pun intended) distraction from the discomfort of having half of one’s head twice its normal size.
Throughout the day, I found myself saying aloud, things like: “Sweet baby Jesus in the manger, this hurts!”or just whining to the pets, who were of no comfort whatsoever. In fact, the pets too are susceptible to MRSA, which means consoling hugs from the four-legged cohabiting critters for the forseeable future.
One bright spot, my acupuncturist agreed to see and treat me. It was a very delicate affair, all of my things needed to only come in contact with the paper that lines her table, and in my case, every other surface of her office. And even though it was extra-painful, the treatment seemed to really help abate some of the ever-so plentiful inflammation. Things were so sterile that Allison, my acupunturist, would not even accept payment, lest the money for the co-pay become a vehicle for transmission.
Cefdinir 300mg, twice a day
One of the ironies of MRSA is that, even though it is called an antibiotic resistant superbug, the first thing people ask you is, “what antibiotic are you on?”.
MRSA is an acronym for methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus. It isn’t resistant to all antibiotics, YET. What it is, is a staph that is resistant to the broad-spectrum antibiotics commonly used to treat it.
The photo below was taken with my handy blackberry camera whilst I was awaiting the fulfillment of my prescription antibiotic Cefdinir.
Cefdinir, for those keeping score at home, has three warnings on the bottle.
- The first begins: “MAY CAUSE DIARRHEA, IF PERSISTS OR BECOMES SEVERE, NOTIFY DR OR RPH”
- And the second reads: “DIARRHEA MAY OCCUR WEEKS TO MONTHS AFTER TAKING DRUG, CALL DR OR RPH”
- The third has to do with interaction with antacids and vitamins
Sounds like I’ve got about a 99.9% chance at some pretty lengthy diarrhea - so, I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.
My MRSA mug, circa Monday
As you can see my left side (viewer’s right) is relatively okay but at the center-line swelling begins almost immediately. From the eye-socket to the glands below my jaw - everything was close to double its normal size. I’m not that vain but I now have some, small insight into what it means to be disfigured.
The following comes with a warning to the reader, you may want to have your sick bucket handy:
even thought it is bandaged, the wound is supposed to be left au naturale so it can weep!
Monday morning you sure look fine (not)
615am Monday - alarm bell rings and it’s time to face the day ahead, week ahead, year ahead, lifetime etc….
The morning routine begins as scheduled, except when I looked in the mirror I faced not with my usual self but instead my gaze fell upon an unfamiliar countenance that could be of blood relation to John Merrick, uncharitably known in his time as the Elephant Man.
Aghast, I saw the right side of my face swollen and distended. My upper lip drew downward like someone who’d suffered a stroke or had Bell’s palsy in combination with the kind of bad plastic surgery/collagen injections we all have seen in the aging-not-so-gracefully faces of Meg Ryan, Lisa Rinna and
.
,
Oh, and there was not unsubstantial pain too. It was the pain of infection and not a normal infection, something far worse than my past experience of what was par for the course of cuts and scrapes.
I didn’t know what had gone wrong, but it was clear that something had. I emailed in sick and called my doctor’s office as soon as it was open. Mercifully, the fit me in for 945am. After a 45 minute wait in reception reading of the plight of the Virungan gorillas, I was escorted in to an exam room. A few minutes later, my doctor told me he couldn’t be absolutely certain until he performed tests but was quite convinced that I was victim to an antiboitic-resistant staph infection, MRSA.
All Saints Day
Sunday is the lord’s day and for yours truly, that would mean the lords of the gridiron, my beloved New Orleans Saints. Some people pray to Jesus, I find my salvation in Breesus.
Of course, I was dressed to the nines, that being my #9 Drew Brees jersey, until game time, when I changed to my lucky #25 Reggie Bush jersey, which though falling apart must remain in play as long as the winning streak is alive. It was yet another nerve-racking game in which the Saints fell behind early and spent a considerable about of time digging out of a deficit. Just like they did against Miami & Atlanta, the Saints were able overcome a team with a good defense and a strong running attack to triumph in the end.
My unbridled enthusiasm for the Saints was likely what blinded me to the emergence of a small-scale crisis on my visage. What had begun on Saturday as a minuscule blemish, was now a full blown (blown as in blown up like a balloon) volcanic zit. Or at least I thought it was a zit. And it was a painful zit too! I was eager to subdue the zit so, with the help a few beauty products, I was sure this would be an easy task of exfoliation and cover-up. A smidge of glycolic, a touch of mudmask and some spot moisturizing and surely I’d be good as new, or at least good as my 40-year-old self is capable of looking.
In the beginning
It started innocently enough, a small red blemish over the corner of my lip. A little concealer and poof, almost magically, it was an afterthought.
I was off to an art opening and eventually a liquor-soaked soiree called Speakeasy and then the wind-down thereafter. All in all, a successful evening full of friends, free-flowing alcohol and easy conversation.
When I arrived home in the wee hours, all that was left to do was to let the critters out
(and, of course, in again), lock up the domicile, brush the teeth and to wash off any remnants of war paint.
Aforementioned red blemish looks just a little redder, must’ve been a tough night for the little one, what with all the embraces and cheek-kissing. It can be rough sometimes, being a social animal.
But tomorrow is another day and we can use the full force of the beauty regimen to right the ship and force our little friend into submission. Or so I thought.
