A Newly Formed Germ Phobe

I once took pride in the fact that I was not a germ-phobe. I didn't carry hand sanitizer. I wasn't constantly spraying my classroom down with bleach. I touched shopping carts. I picked up things off the ground. I had long nails. I went and got pedicures.

I would step foot in a public bathroom.

I was careless and fancy free . . . What? My immune system would handle it. In fact, my immune system would be better for it. Right?

And then I got a spot on my hip . . . which at first I thought was a zit . . . and then thought it was a spider bite . . . right on my hip bone . . .

And after a month of seemingly rotting and a week of people poking me with needles and missing veins (not like "my shots", as I call them, for the allergies . . . they can't miss with those) I think I am reconsidering my position.

I may want a bubble. And everything wiped down with antiseptic. And a world without public restrooms, or people if I cannot verify their level of cleanliness. After two weeks of being judged for a pile of germs that I cannot control . . .

I am afraid to go anywhere. I don't want to infect my friends, or family, or perfectly innocent strangers for that matter. And as careful as I am . . . gloves, disinfectant, following the instructions to the letter . . . I am still not better. Still oozing and contagious. (Although, knock wood, no new spots) And if you read the evil, evil internet I may be doing this whole routine (showering three times a day, using everything only once, hibicleanse every other day, sticking shit up my nose twice a day, cutting my fingernails super short, AND IV antibiotics . . . or oral antibiotics four times a day) for a very long time. Perhaps 12 weeks. And it could still come back.

And there is the faint praise, at least it's not MRSA. But my full test results STILL haven't come in.

Today, the nurse's glove somehow got stuck and she accidentally ripped out my IV needle. I know she didn't mean to do it and felt terrible . . . and it pales in comparison to the time that they stuck me four times in one day . . . but no one really should have to go through this at thirty seven. Eighty? I don't know. I suppose if it were the Middle Ages, I would be dead by now. How's that for a positive spin?

And honestly, I don't know how I'm going to leave the house . . . I have to go to the bathroom every five minutes.