When Shingles Leave a Souvenir: My Ongoing Battle With Post-Herpetic Neuralgia

Back in January 2008—when my biggest concern should have been something normal like “Why is the rent this high?” or “Did I leave the stove on?”—I woke up with the left side of my face looking slightly irritated, and not in the “Oh, that’s a pimple” way. No, this was more “my nose is under attack by invisible fire ants,” which is an extremely specific sensation I wouldn’t recommend. There was burning, stinging, and that buzzing kind of pain that makes you instantly suspicious that your body is auditioning for a medical drama without your consent.

A quick trip to the doctor later, I learned the delightful news: shingles. On my face. Right next to my eye. Apparently shingles in that area can cause blindness, which is not something anyone wants to hear before they’ve even had breakfast. Fortunately, I caught it early, and the antivirals swooped in before things got catastrophic, but even early treatment doesn’t spare you from the aftermath. And oh, the aftermath.

Ever since that charming episode, I’ve had post-herpetic neuralgia—a phrase that sounds like something whispered ominously in a Victorian asylum. The left side of my nose burns, zaps, smolders, and occasionally feels like someone is dragging a hot wire across it. And when the burning isn’t front and center, I get the other sensation: the infamous imaginary fly crawling across my cheek. The first time it happened, I swatted at my face like I was starring in my own slapstick comedy. Spoiler: the fly does not exist. It is my nerves, misfiring with the enthusiasm of a toddler on espresso.

I did what any responsible human with chronic illness does: I went to a neurologist, collected another medication for the ever-growing pharmaceutical bouquet I carry like an overachieving Girl Scout, and tried the Gabapentin they gave me. It worked… if the goal was to turn me into a pleasantly sedated houseplant. I was so foggy I could’ve starred in my own weather report. So I did what my exhausted brain always does when pushed too far: I rebelled. I stopped taking it.

And oh, did the nerve pain celebrate its comeback tour. Burning, stinging, that ghost-fly doing the cha-cha on my face. It was like my nerves were throwing a block party, and I wasn’t invited but was forced to attend.

That’s when I stumbled on a homeopathic option called “Nerve Fix.” Was I skeptical? Oh, absolutely. I’ve tried enough supplements to qualify as a part-time apothecary. But I was desperate, so I gave it a go. And—plot twist—it actually helped. After a couple of weeks, the burning eased up, the imaginary fly took fewer joyrides across my nose, and I could function again without wincing every few minutes.

For a few years, Nerve Fix became part of my routine. Then life happened, pharmacy runs were forgotten, and every time I missed a dose or ran out, the ants and the fly returned like they’d been hiding backstage, waiting for their cue. But over time, the symptoms began to shift. So I kept taking it—on and off—until eventually the constant buzz simmered down. The pain never fully disappeared, but it loosened its grip enough for me to live without thinking about it every waking moment.

Now, all these years later, the symptoms have mellowed into something my brain just casually… ignores. And honestly? I think the human brain is kind of miraculous—it ignores your nose even though it’s always in your line of vision, so why not ignore the rude little nerve misfires popping up now and then? These days, I still sometimes feel what I lovingly call “the ant,” that crawling sensation under my skin. I scratch it, it goes away, and life continues. Maybe it healed. Maybe my brain reorganized the filing cabinet and shoved this sensation into the “not worth panicking about” drawer. Who knows.

Of course, now that I’m writing about it, the ant has decided to clock in for his shift. Again. Dammit.

But that’s life with chronic illness—a constantly rotating cast of sensations you learn to coexist with. You adapt, you experiment, you joke because sometimes humor is the only painkiller that works without side effects. Maybe the nerves will flare up again someday. Maybe they won’t. But at least I know I’ve survived worse, and I’ve got a front-row seat to my own unpredictable internal circus.

And as always, the legally-required human sentence: please talk to your doctor before trying any new medication, homeopathic remedy, or supplement, unless you enjoy your medical team giving you that look.

If you’ve dealt with shingles, nerve pain, or phantom-insect sensations of your own, I’d love to hear your experience. Drop a comment below or subscribe so you don’t miss the next chapter in this ongoing chronic-illness comedy.