Illustration by Dana Wyatt of Spruce Avenue
It's finally happening...my school year working with my little guys is coming to a close, just two more weeks to go. At the risk of sounding old, crusty, and cliché, I'm just going to say it: damn, does time fly. I remember when I started back in October, and was signing my contract that read that my obligation was until June 30th. It seemed like a lifetime away and felt even a little nervous committing myself for so long. Well "so long" is coming to an end in ten days. Even my visa's days are numbered and have to go to the much dreaded préfecture appointment next week.
Enjoying my last weeks of work and the sporadic summer days we have been enjoying here in Paris, I walked into school wearing my summer best and holding a large water bottle of my homemade sun-brewed mint green tea, looking forward to sitting in the park after work. Walking down the halls that on this day curiously smelled like Nair hair removal cream, I noticed a continuous theme on many of the children; red spots sprinkled like confetti on their faces. Some spots were dark, some were fresh and bright, and some were hedged with dry blood. Connecting the dots (pun so intended), I knew at four years old these poor kids weren't suffering from toddler acne and that it was much more serious; they had the freaking chicken pox.
Walking up the stairs to the la petite section to retrieve tiny Thomas, I learned that he was not immune to the widespread epidemic, and was too fashioning tiny spots all over his otherwise envy-worthy milky skin. Awesome. When he saw me, he ran into my arms ready to give me a hug and slather my face with a double-cheek bisous, and I nearly flung him off of me. This reaction wasn't driven by a fear of germs, it's just that I cannot confirm if I in fact, have ever had the chicken pox before.
I find it amazing that after 31 years, this has never come up. How have I never looked into this before? Inquiring about chicken pox is like volume one of annoying kid questions. Perhaps I have and just forgot? When I think back on a random memory like this, I can literally hear the rusty wheels of my brain squeaking as they search for an answer. I can't remember this, a question about my health, but me asking Timothy Wolf out in 1995 at sleep away camp and him calling me "too ugly for words"? That I remember as if it was yesterday.
In a panic, I looked up on my handy smart phone what happens to adults when they contract the chicken pox, and was far from delighted to read the word herpes zoster or better known by its "street" name: shingles. The description of painful blisters and skin rash heightened my apprehension, and made sure to wash my hands several times, not touching anything that was in direct contact with Thomas. Then I made the ultimate mistake: I told Franck that I was "allergic" to the chicken pox.
Well that's all he needed to hear.
He spent a better part of the afternoon attempting to rub things on Thomas, and then transfer it on me. Anything from tennis balls to the sleeve of his sweatshirt to cookies was open game, as far as precious Franck was concerned.
Not at all surprisingly, the parents weren't terribly concerned that their child was sent to school with a highly contagious disease nor the fact that I wasn't sure if I had them. The only way I would get to the bottom of this was by confirming with my mother, who would surely know.
That evening I called her knowing that she would tell me that I had them as a wee baby, and would put my anxious soul at ease. There's nothing like a phone call to mom to make things better, right?
"I don't remember," she barked as I heard a page from her "newspaper" The New York Post turn. "Kim is about to pop out that baby any minute now. God, I hope it's not ugly."
Mom! Just like the parents, she too was far from concerned but at least they didn't blow it off with tabloid gossip, about Kim Kardashian no less. On a side note, she is right though. We're going to be seeing a lot of that baby, so yeah, it better be cute.
"You don't have the chicken pox, don't be such a drama queen." she appeased my hysteria. "If you had them, trust me you would have known by now."
"Well can you call Dr. Schwartz to see if at least he remembers or has my files?"
"Dr.Schwartz? What are you crazy?" she snapped, "He's dead!"
Okay, now I'm really old. Even my pediatrician is dead.
That evening, I swore I was "feeling itchy". It's like when Franck gleefully told me one day that he had lice, and I spent the whole day convinced that my scalp itched. That whole night I swore that I felt red and an outbreak of herpes zoster was well on its way.
The following morning, stepping into the shower, I caught a glimpse of something red on my backside in the mirror and immediately screamed for Aurel. The red coats are coming! Herpes zoster was coming! I knew it! I wasn't crazy!
He rushed in, took a look, laughed, and walked away. "Babe, you just have a pimple on your butt...n'importe quoi." Never in my life would I have thought that I'd be so happy to see a zit on my tookus. Pure jubilation.
It's been over a week with no signs of red spots other than zitus tookus, and the monthly zit was face "enjoys", so I'd say I'm in the clear. And hey on the bright side of all of this, it gave me another opportunity to beef up my French vocabulary. I now know when I hear the word varicelles....to run, run, run!!
