Sickness: A Retelling

Bum ba da dum ba da bum bum bum. The melody of Holy Diver growling from my cell phone started my day. Actually, I was aware of the crackling cough coming from my chest before I was fully aware of the alarm going off. After I put on my work clothes I called my boss to let her know I wouldn’t be coming in today. I didn’t even need to play up the sickness in my voice, not even a little. Every muscle in my body tingled under the weight of standing. My ears felt like they were full of hot chocolate, not delicious hot chocolate served at that perfect temperature with an almost unidentifiable hint of vanilla that warms your insides to unlock childhood memories in the snow, but the kind of hot chocolate that burns your tongue instantly. I topped my baby pink thermal off with a short sleeve Friday the 13th tshirt. Even sick I’m awesome. Before heading to my car I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I now know that my fashion sense resides in my ears because I had thrown on a knee length black and white checkered pea coat, oversized gray sweatpants with yellow pinstripes , and the cherry on top was my hot pink fluffy beanie complete with dangly balls. I was the worst dressed hot fudge sundae I had ever seen.

Before stepping through the front doors of the walk-in clinic I hoped the waiting room wouldn’t be full and if it was, I vowed that today everyone else would feel obliged to donate their land to my germs or else die for their cause. Scouting the waiting room I spotted another foot soldier in this war, a girl sitting in front of the windows staring into her lap. She was wearing my uniform; sweatpants, coat, and beanie. Were we to fight on the same side? Were we to swap stories of better days huddled into a trench built with our bare hands? How long had she been left here behind enemy lines? She glanced up and I saw that not only was she texting but her hair was styled and she was clearly wearing makeup. Nay, we were not to be comrades but she was clearly not a threat to extending the time I would spend in that office. Before I could sit down and claim my space with a battle cry of mucus against my raw throat a chipper young man dressed in blue from head to toe called my name and showed me to my private quarters.

I gave the enthusiastic kid the rundown of my symptoms then sat quietly through the usual preliminary stuff; heart rate, blood pressure, etc. Moments later Vick Mackey quietly introduced himself to me. Well, my doctor looked exactly like Vick Mackey but had a disposition closer to that of a very calm Labrador retriever with a stethoscope and a penchant for saving lives. He reached between his legs and pulled that short barstool on wheels into position. After the typical Q & A session he began the poking and prodding.

“Oh yeah, you got a lot of fluid in those ears.”

“It’s not hot chocolate by any chance is it?”

He chuckled under his breath and told me to breathe deep as he moved his stethoscope around my back. At first I wondered how he kept his stethoscope so warm, and then I wondered what he would hear in there if I thought really hard about that Miley Cyrus song. Nodding my head like yeah.

He nonchalantly informed me they were going to test for strep throat, influenza, and pneumonia. Wait a minute, pneumonia?! This was very disturbing to me for several reasons. Pneumonia, like tetanus and tuberculosis, only belonged in Edgar Allan Poe poems. It most certainly does not belong in the chest of a twenty- four year old. Had I recently inhaled a piece of literature penned by Edgar Allan Poe? That would explain a lot actually. I didn’t have time to harp on this too long because the next words out of his mouth were, “No matter what the test results, you’re going to need at least another three days off of work. You’ve got a lot of. . . junk. . . settled in real nice and deep in your chest.” Junk. I love learning new medical terms.

The sunshine ray dressed in blue returned with a handful of sticks. Looking back on it I feel badly because I greeted him with a groan.

"Oh, so you’ve had this done before.”

“I’ve been tested for strep, yeah. Brings back bad memories.”

“Oh, well…” he fidgeted with the medical supplies in his hands, “the flu test is actually much worse.”

I was skeptical, but now I’m a believer.

He unpackaged this overgrown cotton swab and informed me, ever so gently, that he would need to hold my head down and stick the swab far enough up my nose to get near that area “near the eyeball and just give the brain a little tickle .” Nice try, now let Elmo explain. “If you don’t jerk around and make it difficult for me to get the sample I promise it won’t be that bad.” His delivery was very Martha Stewart and I believe contributed to its landing more like a threat than the gentle request I expected. Again, I would much rather have heard it from Elmo, maybe even the Swedish Chef. Bork. Bork. Bork.He placed one hand on my forehead and tilted my head back. He wasted no time jamming that stick up my nose. My right eye itched and instantly began to water and something of a questionable nature started to climb the back of my throat. I could feel the end of the stick groping its way around the back of my eyeball. I dug my nails into the edges of the table cushioning. By the time I stopped gagging I found myself alone in the room to process the sanitary removal of that experience from my memory, but I wasn’t alone long enough to do so.

A short, soft-spoken, heavyset woman poked her head into my room to let me know that she would be returning with my steroid shots shortly. Now I don’t know if you’ve ever been fortunate enough to get these steroid shots before but let me tell you about them. They’re fucking magic. They come in and stab you in the hip with these things and your world opens right up. It doesn’t matter how sick you are, you could literally be dead and by the time they pull the needle out, the disease has completed its first half-life cycle. They’re magic shots, I tell you.

I was pumped. I heard the door open with an odd pulse around it thanks to the fluid in my ears. Awesome, bring on the magic shhhhit those are big needles! They were a good five inches long and at least two or three centimeters wide. The light did not reflect off of these needles, it bounced. I gave a low whistling sound underneath what little breath I had.

The nurse made her patience known, “Whenever you’re ready.”

“How’s tomorrow looking for you?” I smiled at her faintly and lifted my shirts over my hips.Her giggle arrived simultaneously with the smell of alcohol from the disinfectant wipe she had just opened. The wipe, like the stethoscope, was nice and warm. Man, did they keep everything nice and – sharp poke in the fleshy part of my hip. Judging by the inertia that needle had behind it I imagine some jiggling commenced. I breathed in sharply through clenched teeth and counted slowly to five, twice. Damn. “Ok, sweetie, now the other one.” She discarded the empty needle on the table in front of me. I got to stare at it while she stabbed me with the other one. It looked like a piece of prop medical equipment from a stage show.

Moments later I received my diagnosis, a viral infection with dreams of becoming bronchitis. While I was in Wal-Mart getting all four of my prescriptions filled I had a notion to conduct an experiment. Just how quickly could I clear out an aisle if I stood in the middle of it and coughed? It would be like parting the red sea except instead of pealing back millions of gallons of water to reveal a path to safety and freedom I could reveal a clear path to the two liters of Sprite, which coincidentally, were on sale. My brain felt too heavy to wrestle with the moral indignities of risking infecting others simply for my entertainment. An hour later I was on my couch, fast asleep with my dog at my feet.