A rather rude comment was made about me yesterday. I was referred to by my nearest and dearest as “the most hateful sick person in the history of the universe.”
I have strep throat, which I get almost every year. I think this year’s case has been by far the worst. Maybe I say that every year. Maybe it’s like childbirth, and once it’s over you can’t remember what it was like. All I know is that it really, really sucked this time. I reached an all time low late yesterday afternoon and volunteered to go to the doctor. After only three doses of my antibiotics, I feel much better. My husband has made the comment–numerous times–that if I had gone to the doctor right at the first onset of symptoms, I would have never gotten so miserable. He also said, “We go through this every year. Why? Why can’t you just go? You know how it’s going to turn out!”
Nobody likes a know-it-all, you know.
Well, I suffered for my cause this year. I had a roaring fever, aches, pains, and the words “sore throat” don’t even hint at the total carnage that was inside my neck. I literally did nothing but sip water for two days, and that was mostly to wash the Advil down. The pain in my throat even caused my ears to ache. I made the mistake of shining a flashlight in my mouth and looking at my throat–I may never recover from that sight.
After two days of laying on the couch with even my hair hurting, I finally consented to go to the doctor. Matt loaded me up and hauled me over there. I think the test for strep must be punishment for waiting so long to go. They take this giant Q-tip and rub it round and round in the back of your throat. I didn’t think she’d ever stop. Then I started coughing, and that just felt wonderful. I got my meds and came back home.
Matt kept on and on about going to the doctor, and I finally gave him some miserable, hateful answer about how I didn’t run to the doctor every time I sneezed, and now I’d have to pay a bill for that stupid strep test, and I was old enough to do whatever I wanted. I rounded off my rather hoarse tirade with, “I think you like it when I’m sick because you can boss me around!” That prompted him to make his original comment.
I have no idea why I don’t want to go the doctor. I don’t think I’m really afraid. I know they aren’t going to give me a shot or anything. I know I’ll feel better afterwards. To me, though, going to the doctor is admitting defeat. I’m a tough old bird who doesn’t need help from anyone. I’m the caretaker, not the careneeder–going to the doctor is for sissies. I have an enormous tolerance for pain. I’m tough. I rough.
Apparently, I’m also a trifle testy.
So maybe I hissed if anyone got too close to me, or moved the couch I was on, or walked by too fast and caused a breeze to hit me. Maybe I answered questions with various rude gestures instead of words. I felt bad. Everyone gets a little cranky when they feel bad, right?
Don’t agree with me? Fine.
Come over here and let me give you a kiss.