“How long have you been sick,” the doc asked me.

I paused, “Um, 19 days.”  She thought that was funny.  Throughout the course of our conversation she kept saying things about 19 days.  I guess she liked the specifics.  Her use of humor suggested that she didn’t think I had some psychological disorder, a serious case of OCD, where I memorize all the details in order to give an accurate report.  Docs usually don’t joke about hypochondria either.

I never get sick so I remember the details.  The last time I saw a doctor was eight years ago with a broken hand.  Second-to-last time was 5 years before that; I had gangrene.  I wanted her to tell me that I had something serious.  No one wants to hear that they have a cold or the flu.  She did a strep test.  Negative.  I was hoping for some blood work.  Maybe mono or pneumonia.

“My eyes are on fire.  My ears feel especially pointy, like they’re preparing for launch.  Throat feels like a desert.  Even the bottoms of my feet ache.  Do you think it may be lycanthrope?”

“Probably not.  Since this sickness has been hanging around for 19 days, I’m going to put you on an antibiotic.  Gargle with saltwater.  Buy some lozenges.  Yada, yada.”  Just what I expected… an unnecessary antibiotic and a series of home remedies.

You mean I’ve been wearing this deathmask for nothing?  My chance of survival is nearly 100%.  I’m taking the antibiotic just in case.  It violates my principles, but so what?  Since I am going to live, I should probably begin blogging again.