I know, I know, I’ve been a little grumpy and cranky and given to using language reserved for a bitch fight. I’m feeling better today though, and I attribute my slight increase in bliss to the fact that I have been inhaling the ferret, otherwise known as Lily.
Attribution may also be made to my doctor, Dr. K, the kindest doctor I know. I had my root canaled, and the day after, I came down with some kind of crud that included fever, ache, cough, whining, no appetite, increased whining and sluggishness. Over the past two weeks, I’ve felt like a bowl of ambulatory, rancid pea soup with a bad cough and a thick crust of bacteria growing on me. I’ve been utilizing potions, balms, nards, compounds, elixirs, pills, lotions and talismans to alleviate my dis-ease, all to know avail. Finally, I went to see Dr. K. and she spent a good amount of time prodding, poking, questioning and listening to me. After her preliminary investigation was complete, she sat me down and said, “Em, you’re fucked.” Actually, she may not have used those exact words, but that is what I heard.
“First off,” she said, “your lungs sound like a bug zapper at a mosquito convention.”
“So what’s that mean?” I asked, somewhat nervously.
“Well,” she answered, “it means you smoke too damn much. It means you have a lot of crap in your lungs. You have an infection. You definitely have bronchitis; you probably have pneumonia and you could have some really nasty shit that I don’t want to speculate on right now.
I cringed and said, “Are you going to hurt me?” That’s a question I ask most women, doctors or not.
“Not today. I’m going to give you some strong antibiotics, an inhaler, some cough syrup and some other stuff that will help replace the good bacteria that the antibiotics are gonna kill. Then, I’m going to set up two appointments for you; one for a chest x-ray, the other for some blood work. When I get the results of those tests, I’ll call and tell you how long you have to live.”
I blanched but recovered nicely. So this stuff is gonna make me better?” I asked enthusiastically.
“No, I just like screwing with patients. I know you’re not going to stop smoking, but will you cut down a little, I mean, you are so friggin’ dense.
“Yeah, I’ll try. Say doc, hethis stuff I’m gonna be inhaling, will it interfere with inhaling Pathetic Bob’s ferret?”
Dr. K. looked at me like I’d chugged a bottle of narcotic-based cough syrup “Wha…what the hell are talking about?”
I explained to her the whole story about Bob’s ferret Lily, who isn’t a ferret but a puppy. “Snorting the ferret makes me feel better. She’s got this aura of sweetness, of innocence, of goodness about her, and when I snort her, the world seems better, I feel like a nicer person. Is there any medical reason I should curtail my ferret snorting.”
“Has she had all her shots?”
“then I’d say go for it. However, you might want to put some sort of filter over your nose until we get this crud cleared up.”
I gave Dr. K. a hug and turned to leave when she stopped me. “Hey Em,” she said, “you might want to think about exchanging the cigerettes for the ferret; you’ll feel better…longer.”