(Writing from January 29, 2011.)
I tried to hurt a nice lady at the Urgent Care clinic this morning.
Let me explain. I’m sick. My throat has been burning all week, and I’ve been drinking hot liquids and overdosing on vitamin C (known on the streets as chasing the orange), waiting to see if my body was going to take care of it. But over the last few days, my bright red throat has decided to festively adorn itself with white blisters, so I decided to go to the doctor.
After waiting in another version of the hellish line I endured earlier in the week when I brought my sick son to the same clinic, I was led from the big room into the little room for my visit with the Wizard. Before I saw him, the nurse lady decided that because I had white pustules all over my throat, I would definitely need a strep test. She proceeded to, like, totally gag me with a cotton swab (<—read last sentence in a valley girl accent, please), and then left me alone for thirty-five minutes to wait.
I hate when they do that. It’s such a mindfuck. Don’t call me in from the group waiting room to sit by myself in a tiny cell, thinking I’m about to see the doctor, and then make me wait forever. I felt so shitty and weak that I decided to lie down on the table and take a nap. The doctor woke me up when he finally came in. Jerk.
He thought I had mono, or maybe the flu, so the nurse came back in to prick my finger for mono test blood, and swab my nose for the flu test.
Needles don’t bother me, but I casually mentioned that I would rather have blood drawn from my arm because there are so many more nerves in our fingers. So of course, my sweet nurse lady had diabetes, and responded by telling me about how she has to prick her fingers every day. I felt like such a whiny baby for saying anything about finger nerves. I decided at that moment that I am going to stop whining about everything, forever, because I’m a lucky, ungrateful shithead who complains about stupid, petty things, and I have all I could possibly need, including fingers to hurt and not diabetes. I’m also a ridiculous excuse for a human being, and I should probably not talk, ever.
Anyhow. Next came the nasal swab flu test. This involves taking a long, wooden swab and shoving it deeply into the sinus cavity via nostril. It is highly invasive and burns like a motherfucker when they scrape the demon Q-tip against the sinuses. (Not that I’m whining. I’m sure it’s better than having diabetes. Ahem.) It kind of feels like having one’s eye poked out from the inside with a stick, if I may engage in a bit of hyperbole.
As the nice lady shoved the stick into my brain, my left arm shot up and grabbed her arm. I grabbed her arm. It was pure instinct, but I was absolutely mortified. I actually grabbed my own left arm with my right arm and held it down while she finished, as if my left arm was an attacking dog, and my right arm was its distraught owner. But I could tell it freaked her out. She was flustered. I said, “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. That reaction was completely involuntary,” and she laughed nervously. She walked out without reassuring me that it was okay. Just a nervous little “huh-huh” chuffing noise, and then gone. I felt like such an asshole.
I texted my husband, “I just grabbed the arm of the nice nurse who was giving me the nasal flu swab. I feel like an asshole.”
This isn’t the first time. I’m a repeat offender. I have a history of grabbing the arms of medical people doing hurty things to me.
The last time I did this, I was getting an amniocentesis procedure done in Los Angeles, at four months pregnant with my son. The doctor pushed the really long needle through my belly and into my uterus, and I had a cramp or contraction which caused my left arm (he was standing on that side of the table) to reach out and grab him. It was just a baby-protecting instinctive move; I wasn’t trying to be aggressive. I immediately pulled the arm down and felt like a jerk, but the damage was done. He gave me a shocked look and got flustered.
I fluster medical people. It’s a problem.
Anyhow, I’m on antibiotics. I’m fine. End whining.
Oh, and my husband thinks I’m disgusting. Yesterday, he flopped down next to me in bed, where I had been lying, feeling awful, amid stacks of books and tissues. He looked at my face, and I watched his mouth curl in disgust as he suddenly remembered I was sick. He muttered, “Gross,” and quickly jumped out of the bed, as if I was a giant maggot and the mattress was my dead animal carcass.
“Did you just call me gross?” I asked incredulously.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Gross? You actually got down next to me in bed so you could call megross and then get back up?”
“I forgot you were sick.”
“And then you remembered. So I’m just gross. That’s all you have to say to me.”
Marriage is awesome sometimes.
My husband is out bowling with friends right now. I was looking forward to going out all week, but he forbade me to come along and infect other people with my rancid, filthy grossness. It’s okay, though. I can’t drink a beer because I’m on antibiotics, and I don’t think I could bowl without beer. They just go together so well.
And I get to write instead, which makes me happy.
Until I got sick, I had a great early week, actually. I got to talk to an online friend in real life, and I posted my first piece on a favorite website for which I am being allowed to write (The Nervous Breakdown). It was all very positive, despite the illness. And I haven’t been sick since June, which is pretty great for a lady with a kid attending a preschool, so I’m not complaining. (Because I don’t do that anymore, remember?) I had a long healthy streak.
I’m going to go snort a few lines of Emergen-C powder now. Stay healthy, friends.