Hello! This special Halloween dispatch is a surprise treat, born of a trick and a series of unfortunate events. What’s the trick, you ask? Shingles!
Here’s how we arrived at this decidedly not-spooky turn of events:
Early last week, a cluster of red spots appeared on my forehead. Beneath the red skin, dots were forming, dots I mistakenly assumed were acne. The rapid blossoming of angry skin felt like something from an experimental folktale, an allegory about greed or wickedness. The skin itched and ached. It was mildly embarrassing. By Thursday, the spots expanded to cover the area between my eyes. That night I was scheduled to introduce our monthly author event, a conversation between WNYC’s Alison Stewart and Yellowface author R.F. Kuang. Before my cue I bathed in Georgio Armani Luminous Silk Foundation. Alison and Rebecca were brilliant, and musician mxmtoon closed out the event with beautiful dream-pop. See it here if you’d like! (Scroll past the first three minutes for maximum enjoyment.)
Back home in Brooklyn, I washed away layers of foundation, scrubbing so hard it broke the skin. Reader, this is where our problems begin.
I’ve never had problem skin, whatever that means—I’ve been blessed with fairly even skin and few to no blemishes. Even in moments of stress, even when when my diet was less than stellar, my skin has been clear. Something wasn’t right. By Friday I felt tired all the time, but the world was crumbling (see: Gaza) and I’d just come off an extended cold. It looked terrible—the patch included three small open wounds—but I thought it would be fine. I decided to wash the area more often, apply cold compresses, and hope it would heal over the weekend.
Spoiler: It did not heal over the weekend.
Saturday morning, swollen spots bloomed across my face, concentrating around the eyes. For someone who grew up on a steady diet of Twilight Zone, Tales from the Crypt, and George Romero, this felt familiar—a known face made unknown. A sad inversion of Eyes Without a Face, my sight clouded by swelling. After days of delayed urgency, it was clear: This had to be faced. (Get it? I’ll be here all week.)
Since being hospitalized last January, I’ve been extremely reluctant to go to urgent care or hospitals. The time, the cost, the continued threat of COVID—it’s all too much. The thought is more terrifying than the works of Cronenberg and Carpenter combined. I monitor my glucose levels like a hawk, and while they’re far from perfect, my life revolves around avoiding the hospital bed. Despite that, I swallowed my fears and cabbed to urgent care on Sunday.
At urgent care, I started to think again about horror, the genre I grew up with. There’s body horror, yes—a subgenre I know and love—but also the trope of the visitor. Medical facilities in the U.S. call appointments or check-ins “visits,” often sharing an After Visit Summary. In a way, we are all visitors in the land of health, moving through medical space with the goal of being discharged back into the “real world.” We’re just visiting. In horror, visitors are often hapless victims or unwanted guests, though smart horror can upend those conventions. Andrzej Żuławski’s Possession is a favorite example, where a monstrous lover is also a welcome visitor. And while there’s plenty of horror set in hospitals, I’ve yet to see a movie that captures the banality of hospital fear. Here I was, a visitor, hoping beyond hope to be sent home with an admonition and a script for Cephalexin.
Back to urgent care: After 45 minutes in a grey waiting area, complete with ailing palm plant and tablet check-in, a nurse ushered me into a patient room. The doctor arrived a few minutes later, inspecting my face with growing concern. “Did you know you have shingles?” We both paused and I blinked, slowly due to the swelling. No, I told her, I didn’t know. Shingles! I didn’t realize people under the age of fifty get shingles. (It turns out that 1 in 3 people get shingles, and immunocompromised people of all ages are more likely to develop them.)
Then she said the words I feared most: “You need to go to the hospital right now.” The concern was vision loss, which can happen if shingles progresses too closely to the eye. I had an outbreak on my brow bone, which, combined with the swelling and spread of the rash, led to the E.R. referral. What was uncomfortable and a little scary became horrifying—not just the fear of the hospital itself, but of potential progression and loss of sight. Jon and I hopped another cab, this one straight to New York Presbyterian, fortunately just a few blocks away.
Here the intake process was fast: A photo (bad jokes about my glamorous appearance); a short form; thirty minutes in a bigger grey room. The receptionist had beautiful silver bracelets and kindly said “It’s not bad” regarding my intake photo. I waited and scrolled Instagram, heart drumming quietly with a mix of fear and boredom. The classic hospital experience.
They called my name, and in I went to a smaller grey room, where I waited about 25 minutes to be seen. The doctor moved quickly, examining my forehead and the chart compiled by urgent care. “Did they prescribe you Valtrex?” she asked. I mentioned that while I’d asked about medications at the urgent care, they advised going straight to the hospital for intravenous antibiotics and antivirals. She sighed and smiled, saying “You’re fine! They’re just being cautious. With your sugar in range and no infection in your eyes, you can take oral medication. We’ll get you set up and out of here in no time.”
Relief flooded my system. Home? Today? With medication? It felt too good to be true, an unbearable luxury. She printed my After Visit Summary, an odd document noting my blood pressure (high); family history (maternal side: hemochromatosis); and medications (insulin). What it missed: the receptionist’s sterling bangle; the ROHNY episode running in the waiting room; the security guard’s warm “Get well soon”; the way I struggled to swallow my first Valtrex pill. True to her word, I was discharged about 30 minutes later, back in a cab to my local Duane Reade. After that, home and meds and more horror movies.
Elsa Lanchester as Bride of Frankenstein
Settled at home, it dawned on me: For now, I am both a visitor and a resident in the land of illness. Since my diagnosis, I’ve come to understand life with invisible illness; I know how to talk about it, how to move through the world. Asking for accommodations or setting boundaries—that’s all familiar now. But I wasn’t prepared to live with visible and invisible illness. Shingles marks my face: Angry blotches out of Eli Roth, swelling like The Thing’s half-formed imitations. All week, I’ve been off camera on meetings, staying home to avoid being seen. As I heal, I’m coming to grips with the privilege of invisible illness, the fact that I don’t feel like a visitor when I step outside my apartment most days. Today I do.
As the healing continues, I’m trying to make space for joy: Visiting the famous spooky house in Ditmas Park; eating lots of persimmon oatmeal; and cuddling up with our new rescue cat, Wanda. (Pictures soon!)
And while I have you, a few favorite eerie reads, good for any time of year:
Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia
Lolly Willowes by Sylvia Townsend Warner
The Changeling by Victor LaValle
Manhunt by Gretchen Felker-Martin
The Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter
Monstrilio by Gerardo Sámano Córdova
Harrowing is an understatement. So so sorry. I too only thought shingles was an affliction of my ages group and I have known people who have had it. I’m glad you are on the mend, and I’m you sure you a relieved. I don’t mean to be callous, but I was riveted to your post, fast paced and was enjoying the ride. Thanks for sharing ❤️ and congratulations on your sweet tinker bell kitty ❤️
So happy to hear that you’re on the mend.❤️