"The Doctor is initiating hostile action." - a Dalek, Doctor Who

Not my left armpit, but The Boy's. And, yes, he's in a hot tub holding an icicle. Fairbanks picture.

The Mrs. felt that my last post was “stream of consciousness.” I agree. I must have been ill, or something.

It wasn’t the something, I’m just ill.

The symptoms started a few weeks ago, and, since I got my medical degree courtesy of Teh Intratubes, I diagnosed myself. A simple problem that would go away in a few days. (The symptom itself was odd, akin to “When I comb my hair while thinking about ABBA singing Waterloo a sharp pain hits my left armpit.”) I was convinced it was my ovaries. The Mrs. politely informed me I didn’t have ovaries. One theory shot to ribbons. Maybe my fallopian tubes?

Needless to say, I avoided thinking about ABBA, even though my real symptom had nothing to do with Frida, Agnetha, Björn or Benny. The symptoms didn’t even relate to anything remotely Swedish. Let’s repeat a portion of the above using the miracle of Bork Text, hmm? That might shed a clue.

Zee symptums sterted a foo veeks egu, und, seence-a I gut my medeecel degree-a cuoortesy ooff Teh Intretoobes, I deeegnused myselff. A seemple-a prublem thet vuoold gu evey in a foo deys. (Zee symptum itselff ves oodd, ekeen tu “Vhee I cumb my heur vheele-a theenking ebooot ABBA seenging Veterluu a sherp peeen heets my lefft ermpeet.”)

There. That’s better.

So, after the symptoms added a few other friends, and self medication (with bicarbonate of soda, no less) proved fruitless I decided it was time to go to the doctor.

I described my symptoms to the nurse. “Vhee I cumb my heur vheele-a theenking ebooot ABBA seenging Veterluu a sherp peeen heets my lefft ermpeet.” She laughed. I replied, no, really.

Then the next nurse did my blood pressure. My blood pressure is normally a nice 110/75 or so. Has been for years. Except . . . the bicarbonate of soda loaded my system so full of salt that the blood pressure cuff nearly burst due to the retained water in my system.

Ouch. They were even more upset about that then my lefft ermpeet peeen.

I called off the paramedics, swore up and down that I would not start sweating blood from my lefft ermpeet. The Doctor came in and asked a series of questions, to which I gave satisfactory answers. She looked at the medical student that accompanied her and said, “It might be better if you left.”

Uh-oh.

“I need to perform THE EXAM.” (THE EXAM is the one that all males have been conditioned since junior high to dread. Me? I was on a clock not to need THE EXAM for a very long time. The poster on the wall said I had a good part of this century to wait until I had THE EXAM.

“Would you rather a male doctor about this?” Ummm.

“Did you go to medical school?”

“Yes.”

“Fine with me.”

So, the nice doctor did THE EXAM, making my lefft ermpeet scream in agony in the process. She also invalidated all of the cleverly crafted theories that I had concocted after visits to various Intratube sites. She said I had Wilder’s Syndrome. How could I not see that coming? Not contagious, not life-threatening, not caused by my lifestyle, just a thing that happens now and again. Probably will never be bothered by it again in my life. She gave me a photocopied sheet describing the problem, a prescription, and a sheet to fill out to make sure my blood pressure really was normal (as of today back to 115/78 – totally normal).

The down side?
No spicy foods. Does that include Nachos?
Avoid sunlight like I was a vampire.
No coffee.
No tea.
No beer until I get better.

So, I spent the better part of this long holiday weekend stuck to the couch (more than usual), alternating between sleeping and reading. I finished one short story anthology, one non-fiction book, and one novel. I finished the novel with The Boy on my chest, asking me how many pages were left. Every thirty seconds.

So, as I suck down my third “O’Doul’s” of the night, I’m grateful for modern medicine. I’m also grateful for O’Doul’s. The Mrs. asked me to jump over to the store to buy a side of beef so that she could roast it for a light snack for Pugsley. I said, “No, sorry, been drinking.”

It may not be real beer, but, dangit, I’m not going to go down without a fight. Me or my ermpeet.