On this overcast spring afternoon, (when I sat down to write my column) I’m recovering from a severe case of strep throat. The particularly nasty germ I unknowingly received somewhere in my daily travels defied all my best efforts to keep it at bay, even though I went to great trouble to let it know it wasn’t welcome under any circumstances whatsoever.
Not a visit to the acupuncturist, Chinese herbs, slippery elm bark tea, Vitamin C and zinc, or even freezing it out with a mocha frappe could stop its meanness. So, while folks here in Maine were trading in their long underwear for shorts and sandals, I was wrapped up in my ratty robe and fuzzy slippers, a quilt dragging behind me as I stumbled from sunny spot to sunny spot – collapsing on any horizontal surface in the house, including the floor.
After suffering mightily through the entire weekend, I pulled myself together enough on Monday in anticipation of seeing my physician, who, as it turned out when I called at 9 a.m., was booked for the day. After much raspy begging and pleading on my part, the receptionist “double-booked” me, which I imagine, is something like being double-parked. So what if it smacked of wrongdoing, I scored an appointment at 4:30 that afternoon.
I stoically waited for the magic time when I would see the nice doctor. I anticipated she would give me a nice, magic prescription that would make me feel wonderful within 12 hours. Of course, I expected she would listen to every detailed complaint I would utter regarding my feverish little body, then she would smile, pat my shoulder and make sympathetic noises. After all that, she would make me well so I would be able to once again do what I do, which is a lot. I fantasized about this all day as I moved from room to room, pathetically curling up in my sunshine patches, alternating waking myself up with my own snoring, staring out the window at the marsh and fanning listlessly through old decorating magazines.
Of course, nothing ever measures up to one’s fantasies, especially when one isn’t feeling up to par. Once at the good doctor’s, I waited 30 minutes before meeting with a nurse who explained that I needed to verbally update my medical history for the brand-new (oh, joy) computer system. I could tell this sweet nurse had never touched a keyboard in her life, and since I could barely talk, I thought of suggesting she sit in my chair and have a little rest while I input the info. I could save my voice; she could save her fingers. But alas, the truth of the matter was I was feeling so foggy I could barely remember who I was, let alone what meds I was allergic to.
Both the nurse and the doc, who came in with her smiles and sympathetic noises, looked horrified when they examined my throat. In short order, I was rewarded with my much longed-for prescription that would make me “feel as good as new.” I was sent along to wait at the pharmacy, where I sucked on a lemon lolly-pop and tried not to keel over.
I’m here to tell you that while waiting for the antibiotic to kick in, which took much longer than I thought it should, I did not have a good time. For the next two days, I stationed myself on the sun porch, wrapped up in my quilt as tight as a hotdog in a bun, and tried to keep liquids in me without actually having to swallow. I rocked, prayed, and admired the sprouting of the daffodils, tulips and rhubarb. I watched a huge hen turkey make her curious way across the slowly greening pasture. I basically did nothing, then I napped.
Although I’m not totally “in the pink” at this moment, I’m on the mend. (Chicken soup and penicillin are an awesome twosome.) This weekend can only be better and may even include a trip downtown to revisit that mocha frappe, as I celebrate spring and feeling “as good as new.”
Karen Schneider is a freelance writer living in West Bath. She may be reached by e-mail at iwrite@suscom-maine.net.
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