Okay. I have a confession to make. I hate sick people. I’m sorry, but I do. They’re just so…SICK. And what’s UP with the need to share details the rest of us don’t need to know (or OMG, visualize, based on your vividly graphic descriptions)?? What you hawked up, how often, what hurts, whether or not you made it to the bathroom before you puked… When did this become normal conversation? What happened to “How are you?” “Oh, feeling a bit under the weather, but otherwise fine, thank you.”? (I once dumped a guy I really liked because he couldn’t stop talking about his ongoing sinus infections. Seems he got one on every day that ended with a “y.” You know what, big guy? I don’t even want to know you have something called a “sinus,” much less that’s it usually infected. Yes I know, I’m going to hell.)
So one day karma comes a-calling (which my ex-husband would say was long overdue, but that’s a post for a later date), and I’m sick. Sick like I-hate-other-people-when-they’re-like-this kind of sick. Well, crap. Not wanting to go to the doctor, I decided to check WebMD and diagnose myself. Seriously, what’s the point of the internet if we can’t all be doctors in our own mind, right?
Typed in “Cough.” Reply: “You’re going to die.”
Typed in “Chest Congestion.” Reply: “You’re going to die.”
Tried “Fever, Sniffling, and Sneezing.” Reply: “You’re not listening. You’re going to die.”
No wonder WebMD is having subscriber issues.
I admit medical school defeat, and call the doc to get a prescription, which I reluctantly take to the corner drugstore. The chirpy pharmacy tech rings me up and hands over my package with a bright smile, cheerfully instructing me with, “Here you go, hon! Hope this helps! Oh, and you be sure to call your doctor right away if you experience migraines, weight gain, heart attack or stroke, fainting, nausea, vision loss, constipation, vomiting, uncontrollable tics, genital rash or warts, facial paralysis, baldness, severe mood swings, infections, bloating, tearing of your vaginal mesh, sexual dysfunction, blood coming out of any orifice, voices in your head, increased back fat, or sudden death.” Then she giggled (seriously…she giggled), “Oh, but of course if you’re actually dead, that last one would be for your next of kin, now wouldn’t it?”
Um, you know what? Keep the pills. My karma and I are going home for a hot bath, a warm brandy, and a good, long nap.