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I'd type in all caps, but it'd probably trigger a hacking fit
I left work early yesterday on account of general body misery, highlighted by the lovely cough that decided a week ago to bypass the usual Sinus Cavity Commuter Rail and simply set up light housekeeping somewhere behind my sternum. Today I was feeling tolerable-but-still-wheezy, but I still got over my stubborn self and galumphed down to the walk-in health center. My reluctance had little to do with seeing a doctor per se, and much to do with being stuck for countless hours in the waiting room with the WORST MAGAZINE SELECTION IN RECORDED HISTORY. There's suffering and then there's suffering, people. (Yes, I brought my own book. Shush.)
As it happened, though, the wait was quite brief, and I was soon greeting by one of the most amazing walk-in clinic doctors I've ever encountered. I swear, the man strolled out of a 1950's small-town general practitioner's office and directly into my exam room: grey hair, glasses, brown suit with a conservative tie, laugh lines around the eyes. His first words to me:
"Was that you hacking and wheezing while I was out there?"
"Yup," I said. "'Fraid so."
"Ah, well. It's good for business."
He did the usual rigamarole with the usual battery of questions. He asked if I smoked, and when I said I didn't but lived with a smoker, he said, "Why is it never the smokers who get sick? It's like the germs go out thinking, 'Hey, here's a healthy pair of lungs!' I think the germs are afraid of getting lung cancer." At this point, I had to ask him to stop making me laugh, because the hacking fits were hurting.
At any rate, prognosis was bronchitis, which was about what I expected. Two prescriptions, one for Zithromax (Z-Pak rules!) and one for Robitussin with codeine (two of my least favorite words in the pharmaceutical world; it's like saying, "dropping an electric typewriter on your toes while being chased by rabid wolverines!"). Work has been informed that I won't be coming in; in truth, I could probably work, but the cough is bad enough to interfere with calls (oh, break my crystalline heart there, Sparky) and I'm sure my coworkers would appreciate it if Typhoid Slipjig here stayed home.
Which brings me to now, about 30 seconds from T-shirt and sweatpants, hoping this huge bowl of leftover green chicken curry will nurse me, if not to health, then at least to the point of not giving a rat's patootie. more fluids, nurse!
As it happened, though, the wait was quite brief, and I was soon greeting by one of the most amazing walk-in clinic doctors I've ever encountered. I swear, the man strolled out of a 1950's small-town general practitioner's office and directly into my exam room: grey hair, glasses, brown suit with a conservative tie, laugh lines around the eyes. His first words to me:
"Was that you hacking and wheezing while I was out there?"
"Yup," I said. "'Fraid so."
"Ah, well. It's good for business."
He did the usual rigamarole with the usual battery of questions. He asked if I smoked, and when I said I didn't but lived with a smoker, he said, "Why is it never the smokers who get sick? It's like the germs go out thinking, 'Hey, here's a healthy pair of lungs!' I think the germs are afraid of getting lung cancer." At this point, I had to ask him to stop making me laugh, because the hacking fits were hurting.
At any rate, prognosis was bronchitis, which was about what I expected. Two prescriptions, one for Zithromax (Z-Pak rules!) and one for Robitussin with codeine (two of my least favorite words in the pharmaceutical world; it's like saying, "dropping an electric typewriter on your toes while being chased by rabid wolverines!"). Work has been informed that I won't be coming in; in truth, I could probably work, but the cough is bad enough to interfere with calls (oh, break my crystalline heart there, Sparky) and I'm sure my coworkers would appreciate it if Typhoid Slipjig here stayed home.
Which brings me to now, about 30 seconds from T-shirt and sweatpants, hoping this huge bowl of leftover green chicken curry will nurse me, if not to health, then at least to the point of not giving a rat's patootie. more fluids, nurse!