Let The Healing Magic Begin

We were considering attending a business conference in Washington D.C. and agreed it would be a fabulous educational journey for our children. There were only two kids at that moment in time and they have always been seven years apart so I am going to say that they were maybe eight and fifteen years old.

Now, I’ll tell you this right off the bat; I don’t like flying so I don’t remember anything about the trip to D.C. Oh my gosh, now I do! We drove. That explains why I don’t remember the flight. Please don’t leave me now, it gets better.

Alright, we drove to D.C. and completed several days of business meetings for the men and fun and frolics pre-arranged for the families. And as our "real" vacation begins, so did my yeast infection.

A quick jaunt across the street from our hotel brings me to a familiar red glowing Walgreen’s sign and I grab a tube of Monistat Seven. That is what it used to be called because you gob this stuff on your lady business and in seven days you are cured. The product advertised it as a cure and relief for feminine itching. I returned to the room with my newly purchased bounty and slathered the goop all over my nether regions. Let the healing magic begin.

Morning arrives and I take a great shower and liberally apply the miracle cure to my now painfully swollen lady region. I remember some commercial from a different product that had a slogan like, "feel that tingling, that means it is working." I think that product was about dandruff shampoo. Anyway, I figured some times things have to get worse before they get better and we head out for our site seeing tour.

Alright, it is August and it is D.C. and it is hot and I am sweating. And my yeasted area is, shall I say "weeping." I excused myself from my place in line at the holocaust museum and created a makeshift pad out of almost a half of a roll of toilet paper. Then I used the other half of the roll to make a second pad but I had no pockets so I put it directly inside my unders right below my belly button safely against what I like to call "my fat roll".

I return to my family and we proceed with the tour. I literally cried my way through the exhibits because it was oh so very sad AND I was in a tremendous amount of pain. My crotch was OH-MY-GOSH on fire. I do remember that I had more tears than anyone else in our tour guide’s group. At the conclusion of the final lecture, I know he put his hand on my shoulder and nodded at me with a tilted head and a knowing face. I don’t know what he was thinking but I know my face said back, "you have no idea what I am going through right now."

One more stop at the restroom, I gently apply a fresh half of a roll of toilet paper to my bottom and fashion two more wads to add to my fat roll for safe keeping. And off we go to the Viet Nam Wall.

When my father found out we were going to D.C., he spent quite a bit of time preparing hand written notes to friends he lost during the war. We searched for their names on the giant wall and requested the attendants to prepare "rubbings" from the imprint of the names etched into the wall. We left the notes behind.

Tears flowed freely from my eyes. The ache in my heart was fierce, but it was nothing compared to the burning in my loins. There was no rest for this inferno. I couldn’t believe that there weren’t flames shooting out of the bottom of my shorts. I had never experienced pain to this degree before and yet, we are once again at a site that honors the loss of human lives. I certainly had no right to be babbling about my pain and discomfort. But damn, it felt like someone had a blowtorch aimed directly at my privates.

Once we left the wall we headed towards the Lincoln Memorial. Now, we walked this entire journey. Sure, all the major attractions are conveniently located. Sure, there are vendors to meet your needs.

Silk ties, we got ‘em. Four bucks.
Oakley sunglasses, we got ‘em. Nine ninety nine.
Lemonade, cotton candy? No problem.

How about a plain sno-cone to go and a fresh pair of cotton panties? I wanted to ice my crotch and put on fresh unders!

I am now sweating profusely; I’ve got a giant wad of toilet paper stuffed into the front of my shorts (which are by now saturated). I’ve walked bowlegged for about three hundred miles because I am sure that fresh air is the only thing keeping me from clearing up this yeast infection.

We arrive at The Lincoln Memorial. I am in awe, this beautiful marble statue honoring such a great man. Marble statue? Man, I’ll bet you Honest Abe’s lap is ice cold. How could I possibly get close enough to crawl into his lap and straddle that man’s giant thigh. In a medicinal way, not in a perverted way but more like a healing way.

I am guessing that on some level Abe would want to set me free from this pain by granting me access to his ice cold marbleized thigh. One thigh, that’s all I wanted. I recall thinking, one thigh fits all.

Needless to say, it didn’t happen. We left the Marble Mand and headed to the Washington Monument. Go crazy with your own thoughts, you don’t need any help from me.

Alright, long story short when he got back home I went immediately to my doctor. I could barely get into the stirrups because the pain was so horrific.

Diagnosis? An allergic reaction to Monostat Seven (which I had been liberally applying for about seven days) which led to an infection which then led to a staph infection. I remember crying when my doctor told me what I had because it meant I could get real meds. I got some giant antibiotics and pain meds. Yup, pain meds. Let the healing magic begin.