I was sick since Labor Day with a cold that I thought would go away like all diseases magically do, they just conform to my wishes, remind me that I’m not invincible and then disappear. I know I’m not immortal. I’ve cut my hand opening an orange, which is one of the weirdest and pansiest injury to experience. This cold reared its ugly head when I felt like a golf ball had moved under my left jaw. I had an earache, sore throat, headache and a general annoyance toward the 47 sorority girls who were clogging my bus route home, saying things like, “The frats like Tri Delta because we try anything! L-O-L!”
I went to the doctor on Tuesday with a mission to get the good stuff. Not just antibiotics, but the pain-go-bye-bye juice. Like whatever would get me to turn my head without pain I asked people who had experience with doctors what I should say. I was advised to talk about my pain, emphasize my pain and if that didn’t work, talk about anything else! My regular doctor was out so I was seen by another doctor which I thought would work in my favor because what would he know? Other than my entire medical history?!
He didn’t know that I hate revolving doors because I’m scared that I’ll walk too closely to the person in front of me and we’ll be in that same glass space, shuffling against each other until we make it to the other side.
He didn’t know that sometimes when I watch Dateline or 48 Hours Mystery I have to pull out my phone and google what happens because I am not capable of handling suspense!
So I talked to him about my pain and how awful I felt with the earache and the swelling and my kids who have had no sympathy at all for their sick mother. He checked me out and said I had an ear infection and a sinus infection and prescribed antibiotics. Then he paused and gave me a look like he was going to wrap things up without adding on a sweet, “And I’ll prescribe some horse tranquilizers for the pain!”
So as I saw my window for the good stuff closing, I asked, “Is there anything stronger than ibuprofen?” Then I mimed the heroin junkie ritual of tapping my forearm and using my teeth to clamp on the rubber tube before my veins are ready for a hit. He did not appreciate my interpretative dance tribute to Trainspotting and told me to take three ibuprofen pills and it would all be better by Thursday.
He was right. I’m much better now. Even though I wouldn’t mind just a little bit to take the edge off, and maybe a never-ending refillable prescription of meds that will make me the worst mother but the best junkie mime in Washington.