Where's My Punk Spirit?

I'm starting this with selfish intentions. I need an outlet to bitch. I need an outlet to moan and whinge and *insert other verbs for spouting words of the "woe is me" nature*

I have been diagnosed with the human parvovirus (B19). No, it's not like the parvo of stray dogs although if that will help you remember, then, please, by all means, go to town on the imagery. It's the same virus referred to as "Fifth Disease" or "Slap-Cheek Syndrome" in children. How do you get it? The same way you get most germs... kids' boogers on door handles, someone sneezing in your face, etc.

It started with fatigue and a random fever lasting a few days. A day after, I broke out in a rash all over my body that I quickly explained away with stress, despite the fact that I had never experienced a stress-induced rash before. Ultimately, the virus has transitioned into pain. Lots of it. It started with my feet feeling the bottoms were bruised when I walked because they were so inflamed. Since then, the symptoms have moved to my hands, knees, part of my spine, shoulders... Three months after my doctor conducted blood work and diagnosed me with an offhand comment, "Oh, this will pass in a few weeks..." Four months after the initial onset, I'm feeling worse than ever.

I cry.

A lot.

My days have been altered significantly beginning with the very simple act of putting my feet on the floor and standing up out of bed followed with the dreaded task of convincing myself to take a step forward. Simple acts we take for granted every single day have completely different meanings to me now.

I now understand the need for shoehorns and have added it to my list: Swollen feet plus slip on shoes plus fingers the bloody hurt too much to help pull the damn things on. Yea. Shoehorn. I need one.

Belt loops! How did I ever pull the jeans over my lovely booty before without hooking my finger into the belt loop!?

Asking a friend to open my twist-top beverages...

Requesting for my husband to offer his assistance so I can get up off the ground...

Forget about all the words I say in the shower as I attempt to squeeze shampoo into my hand, or get face wash out of a bottle that was made with, what seems to my hands, titanium...

..and the commentary. I know people mean well. I know they voice things out of concern. Yes, I AM walking slow and stiff today. No, I do not feel good. Now, please excuse me so I may shed these few tears somewhere private that have sprouted out of nowhere.

I will find a way to carry on without so much of this feeling sorry for myself. I know this.

I think I'm still in a grieving period for the healthy body that I was terribly critical of before (Sorry, body! You really are beautiful!)

I'm closing this first entry with a link to the song inspiring the title of the blog. I sing the chorus when I'm feeling especially candy-assy...

"Where's my punk spirit?"

Cheers, lovelies.