Wednesday, December 19, 2007

I was an 11-year-old girl today. I went to the doctor, for a "deep bronchial infection, bordering on walking pnuemonia." The doctor prescribed me an antibiotic, a cough syrup and an anti-inflammatory shot, so that I might be able to breathe a little better. The moment he said "shot", I started trying to negotiate. I. Do. NOT. Like. Shots. I know that sounds weird. And I have tats, which go on with needles, which is what the fear is. There's not a rational explanation for it.

So, he tells me I need a shot.

"What if, instead of a shot, I took *two* weeks of antibiotics?"

"Heather, you need the shot. Let me go find the nurse. I won't even charge you for it. That's how much you need the shot."

"But, Doc...." It was too late. He'd already left the room.

I sat there, pondering an easy escape. The doctor comes back in, with the office manager lady.

"The nurse is busy, so I'm just going to do this really quick."

"Hey, Doc, let's be reasonable here. You like wine, right? I can get you wine. I will buy you Mavs tickets. A Mercedes?"

The office lady takes my hand. To distract myself, I start to tell the story of the worst kidney infection I ever had. It was in College Station. Summer, 1992. I went to the Quack Shack. The doctor offered me two options. A shot, which would leave me feeling better by the time I hit the parking lot, or 10 days of antibiotics and five days of bed rest. I chose the latter. The doctor was like "really?" Yep. So as I am telling this tale to the lady, the Doc jabs me in the toucas with a spear. My entire right hind starts to feel incredibly warm. I even let out a pitiful little "ow". I requested a Snoopy band-aid. I got boring regular flesh-colored one.

And then I sat down in my car, and called my mommy.