It was 1999.
Or 1998. Wait. Maybe it was 2000.
I don’t know. I just do know I remember praying to die. Or wishing to die. Wait. Maybe I did die.
I don’t know.
But I do know it was Christmas. And I was in Houston. And momma was 2 hours away. And I was stuck.
With some God awful something. Fever. Hacking up multicolored stuff that should never leave a body. Blowing stuff out of my nose that should never leave a nose.
(By the way. I’m not a nose blower. Never have been, never will be.)
(So when I say “blowing stuff out of my nose” that simply means it somehow found it’s own way out because I ain’t helping.)
(And most everyone I work with knows, if they’re gonna blow their nose within 2 city limits of me, they better warn me up front. Then I can handle it. Don’t surprise blow though. That can get you some shit you just don’t want.)
(I’ll get that big knot in my throat and immediately dry heave. Right there. On the spot. And gag a little. Sometimes a lot.)
Anyway. That was the last time I’ve been so sick.
I’ve missed 4 days of work this week. Well, actually 3.5 days. I did go in Tuesday morning but the boss pretty much told me to get out. Of his life.
For the day.
Apparently, he’s not a fan of bubbly coughs.
Let me back up a little.
Monday morning I’m standing at the door to the local stupid clinic waiting on the doors to open. Me and 2 other losers.
Not .4 seconds before 8:00 am, they unlock.
I’m a walk-in. Yes, the loathed loser walk-in.
Therefore, I am asked to sign this sheet that says I understand that since I’m a loathed loser walk-in who was too lazy to call and make an appointment I could quite possibly have up to a 2-hour wait.
Whatever. There’s only 3 of us in here. I sign.
And I wait.
And I wait.
And others start to come in. And most have appointments.
As well as chippy toenail polish. Or jeans that are way too short. Or no bra. Or really loud flip flops.
One dude walked in and it was 8:52 am. I checked my phone.
He had on Harley boots on his feet. He had on a Harley t-shirt on his back. He had on a Harley rag on his head.
He drove up in a Corolla.
(Oh, yes he did.)
No Harley to be found in that parking lot.
Why? I swear to God I wanted so bad to ask why he’d put that shit on then get in the car? Why not just leave the rag at home? Or just get on the bike?
If he even HAS one.
At 9:30ish-y later, I’m called back.
And the fiiiiirst thing they do is run your ass to the scales. Because what you weigh is gonna make a huge difference in the economy or something.
(And apparently the paper thin flip flops I wore weigh 8 lbs.)
(I exercise, eat stupidly healthy (and by ‘stupidly healthy’ I mean a somewhat kinda mostly vegetarian diet that includes no fast food (except Subway) no fried shit and no soft drinks of any kind) and am fine with the report my scales at home give me. Though I wouldn’t balk at 10 more pounds gone. But what woman wouldn’t?)
(But yet I weigh 8 pounds more at the doctor. Are you f’ing kidding me?)
(Cut. My. Friggin throat. I can’t win for losing.)
(I’m blaming the flip flops.)
I waited 1.5 hours to get called back and now I sit 30 more minutes while in the back.
And there’s no more than 6 people, including me, in the waiting room. I know.
And I’m hacking the whole time.
The doc comes in and he’s hot. Which is the only saving grace. However, I was hoping to see the physician’s assistant because well, he’s my dealer. He’d give me crack in gummy bear form if I asked.
And I love that man for that.
(But I don’t ask for crack.)
(Not yet anyway.)
The damn doc wants to know friggin everything. About everything. I’ve now been in that office for almost 2 hours and am in no mood to discuss with him why my records reflect that I like the occasional Xanax high.
I ain’t here for that. I’m here because I’m choking up internal organs, doc. Get with the program.
He prescribes several different things and sends me on my way. Knowing more about my love of Xanax than he does my loathe of hacking.
So, three days later, apparently 8 pounds heavier when in paper thin flip flops, no more fever and less several hacked-up internal organs later…I’m not feeling so deathly-ish anymore.
(Thank you, Jesus.)
Though I do have random moments hit when I still kinda feel like I could die any minute.
Or toss out a lung for show and tell.
(Oh!! The cutest boy in the world is still around. I like him. A lot. Like, a lot a lot a lot. He’s, without a doubt, the nicest guy I’ve ever met. And it’s been 3 weeks now. And he’s still calling. Everyday. Uh, huh…everyday. And he’s still taking me out (not these last 4 days of course…I look hideous and sound worse…so, no way for this week). And he hasn’t lied yet or said anything jackassy or been disrespectful in any way. And I’ve met his really sweet daughter.)
So, that’s been my week so far. Suckish. To the extreme.
Disinfect your monitor after reading this.
Just in case.