Yet Another Journal

Nostalgia, DVDs, old movies, television, OTR, fandom, good news and bad, picks, pans,
cute budgie stories, cute terrier stories, and anything else I can think of.


 Contact me at yetanotherjournal (at) mindspring (dot) com

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» Friday, March 11, 2016
A Lemon of a Lyme
Well, this isn't exactly the most pleasant experience of my life.

Apparently I have completely blocked the itching portion of my sixth-grade bout with chickenpox from my mind completely, because I have never been so itchy in my life. I have a big, red, blotchy rash that runs from my arches all the way up to my wrists. It has not, thank God, gotten to my face (although that is occasionally itchy) or on the skin under my breasts, but it's everywhere else. Areas flare up out of nowhere and burn like fire or thousands of tiny needles pricking at once. I had to race in the bathroom at least once tonight to douse my feet in cold water before they spontaneously combusted (or at least that's how it feels). I wake up in the middle of the night rubbing one heel over my instep in a frantic bid to stop that itch, and stop at corners to rub myself like a bear.

It's my second day on doxycycline and I can't wait for it to kick in a little. Mostly I feel exhausted because the itching wakes me up during the night and the Lyme itself makes my joints ache. (It doesn't help that "spring has sprung" and the pollen is up, which gives me joint aches on its own.) This morning I was stir-crazy, so dressed in an unorthodox outfit of my dog-walking pants (cheap scrubs) and a long-sleeved dress shirt of James' that he had to discard due to a big ink-blot on the pocket. My usual white socks alone took my breath away because they made me feel like I had beach sand between my toes. I went to the Friends of the Library Book Sale and was done in in ninety minutes. Pickings were slim: I got Victoria Thompson's newest "gaslight mystery" which I would have bought in December in paperback, a Dorothy Sayers biography and another for E.B. White, and three dust-coverless "Happy Hollister" books. That's the least that I've ever come out of there with; the pickings were slim. I was happy to see someone picked up the brand-new copy of Karal Ann Marling's Merry Christmas! (a history of the holiday) because I couldn't think of one person I could buy it for. Plus I was amused when a complete collection of Theodore Roethke poems fell right open when I picked it up to my favorite Roethke poem, "I Knew a Woman." Evidently the book saw me coming.

Came home to take my next dose and pretty much collapse on the futon in the spare room for the rest of the afternoon, all the way from 11:30 to 4:30. It's like I can't drink up enough sleep.

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