The joys of being sick
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For some reason as a kid, I never got a temperature when I was sick. This characteristic meant a lot more time at school than I liked. I could be ready to launch my breakfast at any moment, but, unless I had a fever, my parents sent me off to class. Whenever I was feeling crumby, I tried to ensure a sick day by sneaking the thermometer up to my nightstand lamp prior to the verdict. You know, the old “light-bulb-to-thermometer” trick. ”Seriously, I don’t feel good, Mom!” I would lament as she dragged me toward the school bus, shaking a 107 degree reading. More than once, I remember getting to school super sick and having to be sent back home. Don’t think that a fever meant a doctor’s visit either. You had better be half-dying before my parents took you to the doctor.
I rarely get sick, but because of my upbringing, when I do it takes a lot for me to visit a doctor’s office. The Army didn’t help that cause either. In order to go to the doctor, a soldier has to report to “sick call” in the morning. Sick Call at the medical clinic starts at 6:00 a.m., conveniently right before Physical Training begins at 6:30 a.m. Reporting to Sick Call means standing in line with a bunch of other half-awake peeps in wrinkled Army physical training uniforms, most of which came to Sick Call to get out of a 4 mile run at 6:30.
When you really are sick there is nothing worse than waiting a ridiculous amount of time before seeing a Physician’s Assistant (P.A.) that could care less how many times you threw-up this morning, assumes that you are hung-over, and sends you back to work right after giving the infamous Army get-well instructions. Drink water and take some ibuprofen. I kid you not, there was a time in my life when I was crapping blood and the Army doc’s diagnosis was for me to eat more salads and drink more water. Nice. Probably more than you wanted to know about me, too. The only time I was ever given quarters, a military term meaning you get to stay home for a sick day, was after I started working on an Air Force Base (typically Air Force doctors believe more whining).
Soooo, it would come as no surprise that after about a week of feeling awful, Hubby had to BEG me to go to the doctor yesterday. Sprawled out on our bed, I moaned through a pile of pillows, “I don’t need to pay some dude to tell me to drink more liquids and take Advil.” Because I am less than enjoyable when I’m ill, Hubby didn’t let up until I was out the door headed to the closest “doc-in-the-box”. Imagine my surprise, when I walked into a very pleasant waiting room, saw the doctor in less than 10 minutes, and left with antibiotics. Seriously, you don’t want me to explain all of my many symptoms so I can convince you that my body may need more than water and ibuprofen? I thought as the doctor wrote my prescription.
Let me know if you ever want me to bring out my government health care soapbox. Let’s just say when I walked back in the front door only an hour after leaving the house, I thanked Hubby for making me go and told him, “You know, it’s kind of good not being full time Army anymore.”
Themocracy