About three weeks ago, I came out of after having trained (with real weights and machines and stuff) what I think was shoulders and triceps (I'm never quite sure which exercise works which muscles until afterwards, when they start burning like the depths of hell itself), and I felt a bit of a pain in my back (I sort of know where that is.) The pain stayed for a few days and although I hinted to the people that were willing to listen, about how hard I must have worked-out to have hurt myself so badly, I couldn't shake the pain.
After about a week of the strained back, I started getting a rash on my recently acquired tanned, toned and carved chest - ok, it looks like that from where I stand! I thought I had been bitten by something, with three teenagers in the house and two dogs and two cats; it's not out of the realms of possibility. Itchy and also sore, I eventually went to the pharmacist (they are sort of doctors, aren't they?) and the sweet girl behind the raised platform under the sign that says that they dispense drugs, said that she thinks it's a spider bite. Feeling a little pleased with myself that I had also diagnosed right; she gave me some cream and an antihistamine and said that it should do the trick.
Well, Sunday night I'm lying in bed watching the "must see" movie on TV, and my chest and my back are on fire! I decide that on Monday, if I'm still alive, I should go see a doctor - one that at least has a certificate hanging on the wall, saying she passed a few exams that required her to miss one or two Sunday "must see" movies to study some form of anatomical subjects which involved a cadaver or two.
When I woke up on Monday and cast my eyes skywards to give a nod of thanks and appreciation to our heavenly Father for allowing me the privilege to still be a part of this earthly realm, I duly made an appointment to get some insight from a doctor that at least had a stethoscope hanging around her neck.
One look at what she called the "belt", which is the extent of the rash now running from my back and around to my chest, and I was sternly reprimanded for not having been to see her three weeks ago!! The reason: I had shingles!
There are a few things we can easily prepare ourselves for whenever we "self-diagnose" our own condition and symptoms, but to hear that you (and the nice lady at the drug store who is allowed to dispense schedule 7 drugs to people,) had got it so horribly wrong, and not only that, but that it's a "disease" with a name that sounded like a solution for a roofing problem, well I was horrified.
I asked whether they were immediately going to call out the Hazmat team to put me into a quarantine tent like that one from ET, she calmly assured me that that was not going to be necessary. Without using Wikipedia in order to seek out the true origins of this condition, I thought it was due to my lack of eating oranges, which I learnt in primary school are packed with good stuff, stuff which would prevent one from contracting scurvy, something the sailors of old used to contract due to the lack of vitamin C. Scurvy and Shingles both sound deadly, anyhow.
Now anyone who has had shingles can tell you that doctors don't REALLY know much about the cure...or the cause for that matter. There is Hocus-pocus remedies like rubbing a mixture of tar, olive oil and ground bats droppings onto the affected areas, right through to drinking sour milk infused with coriander and the queen's nectar to help cure the itchiness and stop the onslaught of the fury of hell in the affected areas, which now resembles Chernobyl just after fall out.
Try Google - that all knowing, all seeing, omnipresent wonder of the 21st century, and you will be met by a plethora of granny's excellent remedies all endorsed by PhD types from renowned institutions like Chicago Medical School and even the professors that are still operating at Groote Schuur Hospital.
The real fun begins when in your weakened state (psychological and physical), you happen to mention that you have recently been diagnosed with type 1, honest to goodness shingles and the person you happen to be chatting to takes half a step backwards and with that look of "Is it contagious!" and fear in their eyes that they may have just contracted the Ebola virus by coming that close to you, and you now understand that NO ONE knows ANYTHING about shingles!
If you just happened to have greeted with a friendly handshake and then announced your unfortunate condition, the now "contaminated" hand quickly darts towards the trouser leg or the chest to give it a quick wipe in case the disease is now making its way straight from their hand, to their heart and brain.
What this all got me thinking about was how quickly we as seemingly intelligent and functional human beings, handle anyone that doesn't "fit" into our mold of what we believe is "normal." Everyone has some kind of quirkiness or oddity or idiosyncrasy which makes them uniquely "them."
Shingles, acne, red-hair, stout, loud, mild and even to that homeless guy on the corner of the street, we are all only really sure of who we are, if you think about it. Your life, your troubles, your past, your victories and your spectacular failures are all past experiences, which are only really known to you.
I can't judge who you are, what you value, or how you view certain events and people in the world. All I can do is be sure of who I am. I can know what is real for me. No one else has the insight of me, which I have of me.
Seth Godin once said, when someone says, "It's nothing personal," it really is - nothing personal. How could it be personal? They don't know you, they have never stood in your shoes, they can't be saying something personally to demean you, because it's not about you, it's about them. If someone says bad things about you or leaves you for someone else or is somehow acting in a way that you don't quite understand, always remember, it's nothing personal; it's them that has the real problem understanding themselves.
So the next time you meet someone that is not quite like you, even someone that might say they have shingles but who is in fact unique in their own special, look them in the eyes, smile and be kind without smudging your world onto them.
Allow a connection of kindness to take place, recognize them and take time to listen to them, ask them how they are and then be prepared to shut up and listen to their response, you may even learn something you never knew before ... something even Google and Wikipedia can't teach you, because they both can't teach you how to be human...sorry Google, sorry Wikipedia, it's nothing personal.
