Late last night, right before I went to bed, I noticed the lymph nodes in my armpits were swollen. Like, one minute they weren’t swollen, and the next minute they were. (The above photo was taken earlier in the evening, before all my pit problems.) I tried to raise my arms to take my shirt off, and it felt like someone had inserted two lemons up in there, one on each side. So I Googled the problem, decided it was cancer, and went to bed hoping for a miracle. (I don’t recommend using Google when you don’t feel well.)

This may come as a surprise, but the miracle didn’t show. I woke up in the middle of the night with chills. So I put on a shirt, grabbed an extra blanket, and went back to sleep. Then I woke up again with a fever.

When I was a teenager, I started getting sinus infections, although I’m not sure that I understood back then exactly what was going on. I just knew that I would feel terrible, gross, and lethargic. For the last twenty years, on average, I’ve probably gotten a sinus infection once every two to three months, each infection lasting a couple of weeks. Looking back, it feels like I have just as many memories of being sick as I do of being well.

For the longest time, I believed that getting sick was a result of sin because, you know, I’m such a terrible person. So I thought if I could just follow the right rules or say the right prayer, I’d stop getting sick. Well, I guess God’s pretty hard to please, since I could never seem to get better.

At some point, I stopped believing that God worked that way. But as I think about it now, I realize that I still put a lot of pressure on myself because I started believing that I could get better if I just followed the right rules in terms of diet and holistic health (which, by the way, didn’t work any better than following God’s rules).

Even now, whenever I get sick, there’s part of me that feels I’ve done something wrong, like it’s my fault. It’s a lot better than it used to be, but it’s the most frustrating thing, this feeling like I’m doing everything I know to do, and I’m still getting sick on a regular basis.

Several years ago, I dated a guy who looked a lot like Buddy Holly. Honestly, he’s probably the kindest, sweetest person I’ve ever dated. But he was also a lot younger than I was, and my therapist says it’s really hard to date someone whose brain hasn’t fully developed, especially when yours has. Anyway, the night before we broke up, I’m sitting up in bed, and he comes in the room and straddles me like I’m horse. (As it turns out, he didn’t want me to run away.) And then he starts wagging his finger in my face and says, “You told me you loved me, and then I fell in love with you, and NOW you’re telling me you don’t know what you want? WELL YOU BETTER FIGURE IT OUT!”

When I told my therapist this story, she said, “Did he think he was on a Mexican soap opera?” So now that’s what we call him on the rare occasion his name comes up—Mexican Soap Opera. (I’m sure he has names for me too.)

So the next day, when things are seriously over, he starts crying. And he says, “I did everything right.” And I start crying too because he did, and I know what that feels like, to work your ass off in a relationship and have it turn to shit anyway. I know what it’s like to spend all your money and time going to doctors and alternative doctors—pharmacies and health food stores—and still get sick. And all of it sucks. All of it feels like failure, like you’re not good enough.

All of it feels like a Mexican soap opera.

A couple of months ago, finally, I had sinus surgery. I could probably write a blog post about that experience alone, so I’ll spare you the details for now. But as it turns out, it wasn’t God’s fault, and it wasn’t my fault either. I’m sure you’re excited to hear about it, so here’s a picture from the day of the surgery to hold you over.

Getting back to my swollen armpits, I spent this afternoon feeling frustrated about not feeling better, about getting sick—again. My consolation was that I wasn’t sick with a sinus infection. This was a NEW problem, which actually made it feel less like a failure. So early this evening, I went to a walk-in clinic, and the doctor squeezed and poked my armpits like he was shopping for avocadoes.

He said that I had a bacterial infection, probably due to the fact that I had sinus surgery recently and two fillings at the dentist a couple of days ago. He said he couldn’t point to one specific cause, that it was “a soup.” (This reminds me of the time my urologist told me that “dilution is the solution to the pollution,” and I said, “Did they teach you that in medical school?”) Anyway, the doctor today said surgery and dental work are invasive procedures, and it’s easy for the bacteria in your body to get out of hand. One minute things are fine, and the next minute things turn into a Mexican soap opera.

So the doctor prescribed an antibiotic, and he told me I shouldn’t wear deodorant for a while, which I’m sure all my friends will appreciate.

Somewhere I heard the story about a mystic or a monk who performed a wedding for a couple, and during the ceremony, he took a stick or something and started lightly tapping them over their heads. He kept saying, “Pain is not a punishment. Pleasure is not a reward. Pain is not a punishment. Pleasure is not a reward.”

I guess for the longest time, I’ve put all his pressure on myself when it comes to my health (and relationships and money), like, YOU BETTER FIGURE IT OUT. But I think the lesson about pain and pleasure is the perfect reminder on days like today. Just because I feel bad, it doesn’t mean I’ve done something wrong. It doesn’t mean life hates me. Likewise, just because I fell good, it doesn’t mean I’ve done something right. Sickness and health come and go, just like everything else. It’s just the way life is. And even if it’s not, I don’t have to have all the answers. (Obviously, that’s what Google’s for.)