It's amazing how one seemingly innocuous event can start of a chain of happenings that leads to the occurrence of something entirely weird. For example, you can go from a minor cold to a devil's food cake in just a few easy steps -- at least, you can if you're living the nonsensical, goofy existence that is my life.
It all started two weeks ago when I got sick. I was coming down with a minor cold when I performed the brilliant maneuver of going to the University of Nevada, Reno football game against the University of Hawaii. There, I sat in the 90-degree heat and got heatstroke, which made me feel worse, and certainly didn't help the cold. This was on a Saturday.
The following Wednesday, the cold was gone, but for some reason, it had led to a minor infection in my throat. It was sore and felt somewhat restricted, so I went to my doctor, Dr. Richard Inskip, who I have been going to since before I was born. He diagnosed the aforementioned throat infection, said it was no big deal and put me on a nice little drug called Amoxicillin for a week.
Flash to 8 days later. It's Thursday again, and I had exactly two more Amoxicillin pills to take (I'd missed a few doses here and there). I woke up, feeling kind of itchy. Thinking nothing of it, I took my next-to-last Amoxicillin pill -- the infection was gone, but I was told to take all of the pills until they were finished. I then hopped in the shower, looked down at my arm, and saw that something WAS HORRIBLY WRONG.
My arm was riddled with blotches and red marks. So was my chest. And, as I discovered when I looked in the mirror, so was my face. And everywhere else, too. I mean **EVERYWHERE**. I looked like I had gotten some mutant strain of the chicken pox. As the warm water hit me, it made me even itchier.
Hmm ... what was that allergic reaction that the pharmacist told me about Amoxicillin?
I got dressed and headed for -- you guessed it -- the gas station. You see, I had been driving my spacious 1990 Chevy Corsica for two days with the fuel gauge on empty. I kept putting off refueling, because I was lazy. I couldn't stretch it anymore without risking an embarrassing call to AAA, so I stopped at a 7-Eleven, where people looked like I had the Ebola virus. This was the perfect start to my Thursday.
I then went to my doctor's office, where my fellow patients gawked at me as if I had a hatchet lodged in an inappropriate body part. Fortunately, I was able to get into see Dr. Inskip, who took one look at me and pronounced me allergic to the Penicillin family of medicines.
"Here's the thing with Amoxicillin," he said. "It sticks around in your system for a while."
Well, gee, fantastic. "So that means I'll be itchy and blotchy for a day or two?"
"Or three or four," he replied.
Lovely. He then gave me another prescription, this time for a medicine called Prednisone, a steroid. I went to the pharmacy, where the pharmacist told me the possible side effects: crankiness, an upset stomach and a burst of energy.
I went and got some breakfast, took a pill, and went to work. There was no upset stomach, nor was there any crankiness (or at least no more than normal). About an hour later ... well, let's just say the burst of energy kicked in. I was wired out of my mind.
I nonetheless got through the day, went home, fell asleep, had a late dinner and took another Prednisone. I then sat down to watch "Friends."
It was about halfway through "Will & Grace" that the pill kicked in. By 10 p.m., I couldn't sit still. But I didn't want to leave the house, seeing as I looked like Captain Yucky Infection. Therefore, I called several friends to harass them. Unfortunately, for my friend David, he was actually home.
This is how David described my behavior, when I asked him about it later: "You sounded like a manic street preacher, going on and on about the world and the events and God knows what else. And then at the very end, you said, 'I am gonna make a cake!'"
David, I must confess, is not kidding. It was about 11:15 p.m. when I decided to bake a cake. I had a devil's food cake mix and frosting and everything. By 12:15, I was itchy, wired and chowing down on cake.
From cold to cake in just a few easy steps. Who'da thunk it?
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan who is swearing off all prescription drugs unless they are absolutely necessary to live. Jimmy's column appears here Tuesdays, and a column archive may be viewed at jimmyboegle.com.