...oooh, I'm so ill... send flowers via the thrift store down the lane, they owe us a favour or two since half of what they're currently selling comes from our basement...
Well, so, it's bladder infection time again. Yay. Ever since I can remember I've been plagued with the damn things, and, in addition to all the pain and discomfort they cause, they've given me a whole lot of embarrassing memories I'd rather not be saddled with. Such moments would include a stirrup-footed visit ten years ago to a funny-looking urologist who dove down, fiddled about and then popped up above the blanket-line to say "No kids I see!" in a very friendly, conversational manner before diving down again to continue his enthusiastic exploration. He didn't seem too interested in any response I might have had (which was, for the record, a very faint "Um, no...")
At this point, I have been on antibiotics so many times a concerned World Wildlife Federation conducted a (mercifully brief) inspection and placed my intestinal fauna on the endangered species list. Consequently, I have lately been trying to treat myself homeopathically instead with the help of various Dr. Quack Home Remedy Pages I found on the Internet. I'm pretty desperate for a cure, so I've basically been trying out every single thing someone's granny says works: A glass of diluted apple cider vinegar for breakfast; raw garlic for snack; canned asparagus for lunch. And of course, always, the ubiquitous cranberry juice: lots and lots and lots of cranberry juice.
All this would be fine, I mean, I could survive the horrors of drinking apple cider vinegar and the social ostracism that results from the killer garlic breath if any of these remedies actually worked. But no, they all suck, and basically I've been in pain on and off for the last month or so. (I KNOW I should have just gone to get the damn pills, but for once in my life I was trying to see something through to its conclusion.) Three nights ago, though, I woke up in such incredible pain that I knew I was going to have to try something else. Wearily, I hit the Internet again and found a dandy site. Some woman had suffered just like me for years. She cared. She'd been there. She knew what I was going through. She wanted my suffering to end. She'd spent years and years researching the problem and had found the solution! That's right, she had the secret! She was going to ease my pain once and for all, and I'd never be miserable again! The symptoms would be gone in HALF AN HOUR! FOREVER!! All I had to do was... give her $37. $37 American.
Screw that! I thought, because I'm just not the sort of person who feels comfortable giving out personal banking information over the computer. But the next night I felt even worse, and, throwing aside all my pesky little security concerns, made a furious run for the computer. When asked for my credit card number, I didn't hesitate to recklessly type it in. But my card was REJECTED. The site took debit cards too, so I typed in the numbers of both our cards but they, also, were REJECTED. Truthfully, I was about as close to a breakdown as I've ever been in my life. I'd been in pain for so long. I just wanted it all to end; I was crazy with disappointment. I typed in JUST GIVE ME THE SECRET, BITCH! but that didn't work either. (I didn't think it would.)
So there was no other choice. I was going to have to seek the help of medical professionals.
The last time I went to the emergency room, I got the hunkiest doctor that has ever walked a hospital floor. If he had a blog, he would have to call himself DoctorStud. I think he was South African so I guess he had all those tall, hunky Dutch genes.
Now, doctors hate treating bladder infections. They're always soooooo booooooord talking to me about them, basically, if I went in to complain about a cut thumb (which I also have, actually) they would probably be more interested. I read somewhere that a bladder infection is like a sunburn of the urinary tract, so naturally a sunburn doesn't exactly get the E.R. personnel hopping with concern. That's why, if I go to the hospital, I ALWAYS go in the middle of the night to one particular emergency room. The place is always empty when I walk in, so, if nothing else, the staff are grateful to me for helping to kill the shift.
But despite being 3:00 am, DoctorStud still wasn't too interested. He barely sat down as he whipped off the prescription. I was pretty excited though, because I knew there was going to be some skin on skin action coming up: Consultations always include a half-hearted back pounding to ensure the infection hasn't spread to my kidneys. DoctorStud was going to be touching me! Exciting! But alas, no sooner had he handed me the prescription, he headed for the door. Disappointment flooded my bacteria-ridden body.
"Hey!" I cried out to his retreating frame, "aren't you going to pound my back?"
It was SUPPOSED to come out sounding funny. Instead, it came out sounding like the hungry, love-starved plea of a sad, lonely loser. Arrrgh. Talk about humiliating. DoctorStud turned around and (I swear he did this) raised one eyebrow. He said, "I think you'll survive," in that snooty South African accent, turned and left me alone in the room to contemplate how pathetic I was. It was difficult mustering up the dignity and courage to leave the consulting room, but I somehow managed to limp out, making eye contact with no-one. I vowed never to return.
But last night, I just couldn't take it any more. If I drank one more glass of cider vinegar I was going to permanently shrivel up into an old sour apple. If I ate another can of asparagus or swallowed any more cranberry juice my skin would be permanently stained with unbecoming red and green shades and I would spend the rest of my days looking like an oversized, gawky Christmas tree ornament. So I set my alarm, and left for the hospital at my customary hour of 2:30 am. I didn't get DoctorStud. I got DoctorI'mTiredAndYourStupidUrinary TractInfectionIsNot WhatISpentAThousandYearsIn SchoolFor. It was interesting, because all I had told the front desk was that I had a bladder infection, but when he came in, he said, "From the symptoms you've described, it looks like you have a UTI." Symptoms I described?? I had described no symptoms. Oh well. I got the drugs I needed, and that's all I really wanted.
Unfortunately, so far they haven't been working very well. The bacteria have put on their steel armour and seem to be giving both the drug and me the little phagocytosis finger. So now what? For the time being, I'm keeping myself busy going to all the home remedy pages I consulted and writing, "Your grandma sucks, and so do you, you lying, sadistic bastard" in the comment sections. But this is, at best, a temporary panacea, and I must confess I'm starting to panic a little: When the pleasure I get from doing this starts to wear thin, well, then what am I going to do?
Sunday, March 18, 2007
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1 comment:
My favourite time in emergency was the time Micah got Dr. Snooty-and-thinks-he's-right-and-is-just-about-to-be-puked-all-over-after-being-warned-but-not-listening.
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