Muppetism.

On any given day I'll have several health issues going on that I'm unable to bring up in polite conversation, should polite conversation ever arise. I'm not a hypochondriac, even though a bad headache will lead me to think brain tumour. I don't believe that constitutes hypochondria so much as it demonstrates my extremely pessimistic nature.

(As an aside, I had a room-mate in university who was a hypochondriac. She also couldn't leave the house without making sure the fringe on her bedroom rug was uniformly straight and not touching. Her food couldn't touch on the plate either, and if it did she threw it out and went hungry. That's actually an aside to the aside.)

(The point is, bitch was crazy. One afternoon she shared with me she was having a bad day because her birth control pills were causing her to go blind, she had some kind of thread stuck up her nose and hanging down the back of her throat that she'd been trying to reach for days, and she had a rare form of arthritis in one hip that was eventually going to cause her to be able to walk only in circles.

This was all hilarious until one day I mixed some cold medication with a pint of neocitran and a dash of anti-depressants in an attempt to plow through some final papers with the flu. I collapsed in the shower, lay there for two hours with the water running, got myself up and out, crawled into the hallway wrapped in the bath mat and told my crazy bitch room-mate with a car that I had to go to the hospital.

She sighed, and said she'd think about taking me after Matlock. Yes, Matlock. I could have died because the crazy bitch had a thing for reruns starring Andy Griffith. I lay there in the hallway, covered by a bathmat, until she was suddenly shaking me awake and panicking.

She would take me now, right now, let's go, come on sweetie, please get up... While I lay there, my lips had turned blue and my face so white all the veins were glowing. I looked clinically dead.

She did take me to the hospital, but didn't speak to me for several days afterward. She was angry because she was so sick, and I was the one who "got" to go and "spend time" in the emergency room. She said this like I had won a radio contest to fly to Cabo and didn't take her. We didn't last much longer after that.)

(Bitch really was crazy.)

(Sorry for the long aside. Obviously I'm still bitter.)

Having had that experience in university, I know myself to be downright reasonable in terms of my medical concerns. For so long now, most of the attention and concern has focused on my nether regions for reasons beyond my control. Therefore, it was actually kind of a relief when my face exploded.

A few weeks ago, I woke up with arms flailing, because I was sure I opened my eyes but I couldn't see anything. After careful scientific analysis (read: freaking out in front of bathroom mirror) I determined that both of my eyes had swollen shut. They went nicely with my lips, which had puffed up to inner-tube proportions. This all may have stood out quite a bit, had the skin on my face and neck not turned red like a nuclear holocaust sunset.

Overnight, I had turned into a muppet.

I couldn't drive anywhere, so I stayed home from work. I left the house only to run to the drugstore and invest in some Benadryl and a chat with the pharmacist, who's greeting was "Holy Dinah." Dinah didn't begin to cover it.

The next day my cheeks had swollen, creating several hard creases in my face that don't normally exist, and squinting my left eye up into my forehead by about two inches. Now I looked like a muppet version of that kid from the movie Mask. I could see out of one eye so I drove myself to work. It's not that I have any kind of work ethic, but I knew the office first aid kit had an epi-pen, and if my head kept on swelling, I was going to need it.

I suppose I should mention that I hadn't eaten anything new, used any new make-up, or new products. Apparently I had taken a sudden and severe allergic reaction to nothing at all. While it's not uncommon for me to overreact to nothing at all in my life, this was ridiculous.

Nothing would bring the swelling down. People stared at me every where I went, and one little kid in the grocery store asked me what was wrong with my face. On the best of days I have no patience for children, so when I told the kid there was nothing wrong with my face, what's wrong with yours?...I'm hoping he's still thinking on it.

I went on steroids for a week just to rearrange my features to a reasonable approximation of where they used to be. The steroids caused me to sleep walk and gain weight. I had hoped the sleep walking could burn some calories and even things out, but if I can't be bothered to work-out in my waking hours then it wasn't looking good for my nocturnal wanderings either.

Several weeks after the initial outbreak, I was learning to live with one very angry looking forehead, and diseased looking cheeks and neck. The hives on my face were resistant to everything I tried - Benadryl cream, Benadryl tablets, incessant scratching, Aloe Vera, funky hats, ice water presses, chocolate, Reactine, and more than one stern talking to.

Since my face wasn't really recovering, I began seeking a referral to an allergist. I actually looked forward to these doctor visits, given the only other times I absolutely have to see a doctor I end up with my legs in stirrups for my twice a year check up to make sure nothing has closed over. This was actually refreshing.

It was also wonderful to not have to attempt to explain what's wrong. What was wrong was plainly visible. I just had to point, and the doctor(s) would haul out a prescription pad and send me somewhere, mostly so they didn't have to look at me anymore. Just seeing my face caused people to claw their own in sympathy.

Even though I had requested to see an allergist, I was sent to a dermatologist. I didn't care if they sent me to a proctologist as long as my face recovered.

I've never been a raving beauty. On a good day I would classify myself as unconventionally pretty, and on an average day I would say that I'm aspiring to average. My face had become so bad that I couldn't go anywhere without people looking at me too long, or too quickly.

For well over a week I was actually deformed, and that deformity settled into the scientific term, godawful. I was really, truly ugly. I thought twice about where I needed to go and when. How many people would be there? Was it well-lit?

Finally, I was seated in front of a dermatologist who was looking at my forehead through a giant magnifying glass. He asked me what medication I was taking to deal with it, and I said I was taking Benadryl, as the pharmacist and more than one doctor suggested.

The dermatologist said, "Stop it." He was not a man of many words.

Apparently, it's quite common to have an explosive allergic reaction, and then build up an allergy to the Benadryl being used to treat it. He prescribed an ointment to put on at bedtime, and when I woke up, my face was back to normal. Completely normal. It was also stuck to the pillow in a pool of hardened ointment, but I did not care. I had eyelids again.

Now I'm loving my new face, which is the same as my old face, only better. It's smooth and soft, with my features shrunk back down to normal. Except for my nose. That's still large, but it was large before.

I'd try snorting that magic ointment, but even then I think I'm stuck with it.