Thanks for all the well wishes yesterday. RC is doing better. Me? Not so much.
You want to hear about Joe the Bigamist, don't you? Well, I promise I'll get to him tomorrow. First I need to whine a little bit more about being sick. Well, not really about being sick but about being knocked on my ass for several days by some mutated amoebas.
I don't even like myself when I'm sick, so how can I expect any of you to read what I write? I feel like I've experienced freak osmosis with the amoebas and become one of them. In other words, I am a disgusting creature from a swamp right now. I've been in my favorite, decidedly unsexy, snowman PJs for an indeterminate number of days. I've brushed my teeth but not my hair. I've lived on a diet of tea, Advil and cough drops. I'm burning up with a fever and it won't go away. A shower would take way more energy than I can muster. I can't breathe, I can't swallow, and my head is going to explode brains all over the sofa any minute now.
Yes, it is … don't argue with me.
I'm having fever-induced hallucinations of lunching at Charlie Palmer's
. Then I have brief moments when I'm lucid and I suck down another honey-lemon cough drop.
I haven't been to PT since before Thanksgiving and my arm hurts like hell. Who knew The Torturer actually helps with pain when I see him?
Yes, I DID get a flu shot this year. So there.
Is there a point to this post? Oh, yeah, I almost forgot ….
We have a family doctor. He's our doctor because his office is literally a block from our house. That's really the only reason. He does actually see his patients instead of shoving them off on one of his nurses or a PA. If you're really, really, feeling like crap he will almost always get you an appointment the same day.
I don't like him.
I don't like any doctors so I suppose it's nothing personal. He hasn't helped me one bit with these amoebas because I've refused to get my sorry ass off the couch to drive one block to see him. (Mind you, I made sure RC was taken care of!)
Briefcase came home from work last night and eyed me warily.
(As in, "How can I possibly be married to that snowman, lumpish pile, moaning on the couch?")
"What did the doctor say?" he asked.
"Mumble, grumble, mumble, cough, cough!"
That made him pause for a minute. I could feel his brain churning as he sized up my unbrushed hair, my fever-flushed face, my snowman PJs, and the Golden Retriever sprawled across my lap.
"You didn't go see Dr. Dollars did you?" he stated accusingly.
We call our doctor Dr. Dollars because he orders a million unnecessary tests every time you go in. He also prescribes no less than forty different medications for the slightest ailment and always pronounces you officially knocking at death's door.
It doesn't matter in the least what you went in to see him for, you're about to die dammit! A splinter? Let's amputate! A cough? Pneumonia! A sore throat! It's strep! You can die from strep! You can die from pneumonia! You can die from an untreated splinter!
Dr. Dollars had to give his deposition for my car accident. He was the doctor who initially referred me to my orthopedic surgeon. He never treated me himself. My lawyer (Mr. Shark) informed me Dr. Dollars "was excellent" during his deposition with the asshole insurance lawyers. It wasn't contrived either. Dr. Dollars truly believes I might die any day now from the car accident a few years ago. If not, clearly, they need to amputate my bad arm. Never mind he's never treated me, he's damn convinced of it.
My case settled the day after Dr. Dollars' deposition. Coincidence? I think not.
Briefcase stood there staring at me in silence for awhile. In my fever-addled brain, I imagined he was contemplating pulling a garden hose into the house. He'd squirt me down in an effort to reduce my fever and give me a shower all at the same time.
"I told you, you had to go to the doctor," he complained.
"I'll go tomorrow," I promised.
"I'll be gone tomorrow," he mumbled.
And then a light bulb went on right above my feverish head. Was Briefcase concerned about my high fever of several days? No, not at all. Not that I'm a skeptic or anything, but Briefcase is leaving on (another) business trip. I think he was worried I might not be quite so … accommodating before he left.
Really, do men ever think in terms of much else?
I'm finally giving in and going to the doctor today. Briefcase is already gone. I imagine it will take a few days for me to start feeling better. (Seeing as I still have a fever of 103.) I wasn't feeling very sexy last night prior to Briefcase's departure. I know I'm a bitch when I'm sick, but I just couldn't muster the energy to feel sorry for him. How about you?