To the Coast

When I left Kelowna, my aim was to drive straight through to Sechelt to my friend’s cabin. I was too tired to keep up the pace however, for I haven’t slept well at night for the pain. I pulled over high in the Coquihalla Pass and slept for forty-five minutes in the car. That meant I was arriving in Vancouver in rush hour, and possibly late for a ferry sailing, but it turned out not to matter. My car worked great, which was merciful, and I even found I could idle the motor again without any dire implications for the car’s operation.

I was late enough to the ferry to miss the sailing, and I waited an hour for the next one. That meant I was able to finish my Murakami novel, and rest and eat. On the boat, I went above decks and took pictures, and soon I was taking my pain below and pulling into the traffic of Langdale and on my way to my friend’s cabin.

It was nice to arrive, although my pain and discomfort had reached a crescendo. I hung out with them around the fire after a tour of the property, and when I became a little dizzy, likely from lack of sleep and food, I laid on the grass to their accompanying worrying tones. I felt better after a bit and then I hobbled inside to sleep. I planned to visit my Gibson’s friend the next day, and I privately resolved to find a doctor and get a real diagnosis. My thought was possibly bed bugs for the rash, sciatica for the pain in my butt and down my leg, and I blamed and days of headaches and some fever on not enough sleep or food. My appetite was supressed enough because my stomach shrunk that I can’t eat a full meal, although I am not overly worried about that.

The next morning was perhaps my worst day. The pain was worse, the rash more extensive, and I felt crappy. I went early to find a hospital and there a doctor told me, after a glance at the rash, that I have shingles. Shingles! I am old after all I guess. I finally had an explanation that put it all together. The crouching chicken pox virus of my youth had waited in my spine for an opportune moment and then leapt into action. It was responsible for the nerve pain, the rash, and the fever and headaches. To my dismay, I learned that only if I were able to get a diagnosis within a few days of the disease, would I be able to get an antiviral which would slow the attack. As it was, I merely had to wait it out. My doctor gave me a prescription for T-3s, however, which I downgraded to T-1s, since I obviously can handle a lot of pain and the last time I had taken a pain med was nearly twenty years. I thought a weak one would probably be enough to make me push away the pain, help my friends with their cabin, and not be grumpy with pain.

My friend in Gibson’s concurred. He is trained as a massage therapist, and knows about shingles. We talked about it for a while, and then caught up on our respective lives. There have been a few changes in both our lives since we last hung out. I haven’t been in western Canada in over five years.

I explained my diagnosis when I was back in Sechelt, and around my friends’ dismay, we discussed the rubbish bin they want built from pallets. We began the project the next morning, and after two days of work we had a bin that held the recyclables and trash, as well as some wood. When I took my leave from them to go to Vancouver, it was nearly done and they had already started to stain it. It even looks a bit professional.

About Barry Pomeroy

I had an English teacher in high school many years ago who talked about writing as something that people do, rather than something that died with Shakespeare. I began writing soon after, maudlin poetry followed by short prose pieces, but finally, after years of academic training, I learned something about the magic of the manipulated word.
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