In the latest chapter in the ongoing saga of my body’s attempts to commit mutiny, I ended up in a hospital. Again. Well, an urgent care clinic in a hospital on a wee little island off the coast of Spain.
I’d caught a cold in London a couple weeks before we left. And it would not. let. go. Like a toddler with being weaned from her binky or that one ex who just won’t stop calling. Admittedly, I don’t have recent experience with either, but the metaphors seem apt.
By the time we were in the village of Es Mercadal on Menorca,* it had been three weeks. That’s right, it hung on for THREE WEEKS.
After that long, you have to start asking yourself, “Do I have pneumonia? Is it cancer? Am I dying?”
So in what I really hope isn’t becoming a tradition (because, hello, twice in two months?), I headed off to urgent care, or as no one says in Spanish, El Care-o Urgento. Rick and Rebecca came with, mostly because Rebecca had a car and Rick is required by our marriage license to sit next to me as I cough my insides out.
Despite not feeling 100%, I was 100% looking forward to some antibiotics and our local distillery tour scheduled for 3 in the afternoon. I was confident both would make me feel better. I figured, how long can it take? Doctor comes in, takes one look, says, “Oh no! But don’t worry, we have magic Euro medicine that will have you as good as new by the time you get to the distillery, where you should feel to drink as much as you’d like!)
Registration was breeze. Admittance was slightly less of a breeze, but only because the nurse shoved a swab really far up my nose.*** COVID test negative! Yay!
And then began our wait. It was long. Six and a half hours long. SIX. AND. A. HALF. Our gin distillery tour? Definitely a no go. I’m sad for the juniper berries that cried in our absence. The worst part about waiting is that games on your phone are only so interesting for so long. And imagining what everyone else’s ailments or injuries are can get pretty dark if you let your mind wander too far.
I started thinking that I was probably feeling better and we should just go when they called me to the examination room—probably the least well-lit, most soul-sucking, joyless examination room ever—and handed me one of Those Gowns. Really? For a cough? But at least we’d made progress. Slothlike progress, but progress.
But it was all a terrible hoax. We sat there, Rick bored out of his ever-loving mind and me in an assless gown—humiliating, sure, but it allowed for a cooling breeze, which was welcome—for ANOTHER HOUR before the doctor waltzed in for a total of five minutes.
Doctor: What’s the trouble?
Me: I’ve had a cold for a very long time and things only seem to get worse instead of better.
Doctor: How long?
Me: Three weeks.
Doctor: [look of paternalistic concern] (as if to say, “You are very estupido to have waited this long.”) Do you smoke?
Me: No.
Doctor: [nodding, impressed] Do you drink?
Me: Yes, maybe two drinks a night (an obvious lie)
Doctor: [look of utter and profound contempt] tsk†
Me: Um, maybe I miscounted? I think it’s more like none a night? (way too late)
He muttered something in Spanish, waved his hand, and disappeared to probably go shame another patient. Almost immediately a very friendly and efficient nurse appeared wheeling some sort of equipment into the room. She made me lay back so she could cover me with small electrode patches attached to wires. She did some fiddling and there were some noises and I may have said or grunted or sighed but she turned to me with a small look of alarm and said, “Pain?” while motioning to her chest.
Um, no, no pain…but wait, is there going to be pain? Hold on just a [zzzzzt], it was too late.
After unhooking me from the electric chair, nurse ran away only to be replaced by an 83-year-old orderly with a wheelchair. I mean, there was nothing wrong with my legs, but she insisted I get in it. Then she wheeled me a MILE away for a chest X-ray, which, if I’m doing the math right, is about 17.32 kilometers. About halfway there I briefly considered escaping, but figured the assless gown wouldn’t hold up well in a sprint.
Post-X-ray and after the 17.32-kilometer return trip, Dr. Judgy von McJudgerson reappeared.
Doctor: You’re sick.
Me: Yes, I know. I came to you.
Doctor: It is likely bronchitis.
Me: Oh, that’s sounds serious.
Doctor: It is a disease for idiots. It is not contagious. You get it if your bronchial tubes get infected because you have a bad cold but don’t take care of yourself.
Me: Oh. That doesn’t sound good. Are there antibiotics?
Doctor: No, you must take over-the-counter medicine and take care of yourself.
So, you know, all in all, a day well spent.
As we left, many, many hours later than anticipated, I was glad it wasn’t pneumonia or cancer. Note to self, though—next time, don’t wait so long to see a doctor. And maybe, just maybe, learn some Spanish in the meantime.
* Which is Spanish for “smaller than Mallorca.”**
** Which is Spanish for “bigger than Menorca.”
*** I realize that this is not a new observation for most of you, the whole swab-test-disguised-as-a-light-lobotomy thing, but believe it or not, it was my first time. Also, does anyone else worry that those really long medical swabs on a thin piece of wood looks suspiciously splintery and how much it would hurt to get a splinter as they pull it back out of your nose or wherever? No? Just me, then, I guess.
† Seriously? This from a Menorcan? They have liquor with their coffee in the morning!
Write a comment