I’m sick, like SICK sick, not hungover sick ThankYouVeryMuch, and I’ve spent the first week of 2011 in bed. And not in a naughty way.
Unless, of course, you think it’s fun to wake up from nightmares at 3 p.m. on a Monday in a cold sweat while accidentally swatting medicine off your tiny bedside table. (Related note: Taking Nyquil P.M. at 9 A.M. messes with your mind.)
I used to get strep throat twice a year, which knocks me on my ass, and I cry and lay in bed and moan and wail (which makes me SUPER CUTE) and I don’t have a boyfriend or my twin sister, Joy, here to feed into my desperation and general feeling of not wanting to live.
I haven’t gotten throat sick this bad since 2006, I remember because I had a terrible editor at the time who didn’t believe that I was that sick, really, and demanded that I get doctor’s notes even though I was clearly croaking into the phone, reminding her that strep throat is contagious.
Despite the fact that four years had gone by since my last general sore throat/lymph node inflammation, I figured it would be handled the very same way.
I could have written out my own prescription for amoxicillin, for Christ’s sake.
(By the way, the liquid form of amoxicillin is quite tasty and cold because you keep it in the fridge, similar to OLD SCHOOL Children’s orange Triamenic. Do you remember Triamenic? They don’t make it anymore. Something about being unsafe or having ingredients similar to meth. IT. WAS. DELICIOUS.)
But anyway. Today was not an easy, breezy antibiotic prescription visit. (I’m not an ideal patient as it is, so this wasn't surprising).
No, today, I got a STERIOD shot in my ASS like a dog at a veterinarian’s office. I’ve never had a shot in my ass before and no doubt had eyes similar to a poodle.
Did I mention that my mom came with me to the doc-in-a-box because I’m sad and pathetic, and she thinks I’m 10 years old?
I don’t have a doctor here in New Orleans yet and I thought that the urgent care clinic was the easiest and cheapest option. My mom was worried.
“I don’t want a shot in my ass,” I told the nurse practitioner. “I’d like it somewhere else.”
“Honey, you DON'T want this in your arm, trust me,” she said. “Now pull down your skirt.”
It all happened so quickly, that I had no time to think and suddenly I yelped…like a poodle.
“I know, it burns,” she said.
I was already mad at the nurse because she didn’t properly prick my finger earlier. (It was a very traumatizing trip to the doc-in-a-box).
The doctor wanted to test me for MONO, which is way scarier than strep, and I had to get my finger pricked to fill a vial of blood.
I turned my head as the nurse practitioner pricked me (VOMIT), but she couldn’t get my finger to pour blood and kept pinching and squeezing it and I started to cry at her incompetence.
(My mom sat quietly in the corner, reading up on “Mono” on her Blackberry.)
“Am I hurting you?” the nurse asked.
“YES, YES YOU ARE!” I said.
“Well, I’m sorry, I can’t get your finger to bleed! You are a very slow bleeder!”
I knew this already, according to the fussy phlebotomists (favorite word ever!!) at the Red Cross, the several times I’ve donated blood.
(I bleed slow!! Hear that hot vampires? I’m like a fine wine, something to be savored! Um, moving on.)
So, the dumb nurse had to prick TWO MORE fingers until she got enough blood, and then she left, giving me a ridiculously tiny piece of gauze to sop up the mess and I ended up using it as a tissue for my tears instead.
For the next five minutes while we waited for the MONO test results, my mom decided to read aloud the history, symptoms and causes of MONO from her phone.
“OK, GREAT MOM!” I howled, as I laid down on the paper-wrapped patient table.
When it came back negative, Doctor Peacock (yes that was his name) gave orders for the shot and SURPRISE!!!! an Amoxicillin prescription.
(He said the strep test came back negative, and formally diagnosed me with tonsilitis.)
But what doctor’s visit wouldn’t be complete without me passing out?
Yes, I passed out, sort of, after the steroid shot, because it hurt really really bad and I haven’t eaten anything substantial since Sunday night.
“I'm dizzy,” I squeaked, flopping my body onto the table.
It was hard to regroup my body, since there was a crying, screaming child in the next room and someone else in the hall loudly talking about all the STDs he wanted to be tested for.
When I finally got to my car, I realized I had spent well over 2 hours in the doc-in-a-box and still needed to pick up my prescription for antibiotics.
At the advice of my editor, who told me to go home, I went to a popoular Italian Ice Creamery and got a vanilla bean gelato cup and big ass piece of cheesecake.
I came home and passed out for three hours, the first time since Sunday I've been able to do so without the help of drowsy meds to block out the throat pain.
I'm happy to say I feel more than 50 percent better now, which I am attributing to the TWO antibiotics I took today, and not the stupid steroid shot.
F.Y.I. My biceps aren’t ANY bigger than they were earlier.