The New Place. The Clinic

You’d think moving to a new place would mean a fresh start.

See, my lifestyle may have been upgraded somewhat, but my immunity’s still a bitch.

How was your Christmas Day? 

I got off to a decent enough start. You know, the sporadic load-shedding that suggests someone at the power company is sending you signals by Morse Code.  Apparently you can’t sue ‘em because of something on every bill that indemnifies them. I think it’s the bit at the bottom where they tell you they will disconnect your power supply if you have not paid up by the time the silly uniform has walked through your gate.

Then there was the rain.

Whoever goes around blessing the rains down in Africa has not experienced a Christmas shower in Uganda… or is some sick perv. I’ll let you think about that for a bit before you pass it on to the Red Pepper’s Hyena as one of your own. 

I woke up to bad weather, but it was okay. Sometimes Christmas means more than that.

Then it kept raining, like someone was trying to prove a point.

And then, just in case I couldn’t take a hint, it rained some more.

I felt a little, I don’t know, off-ish, so I skipped the beer and the wine, figuring I’d go see the doctor and follow through with my traditional self diagnosis thing…

It didn’t work. 

I thought I had Malaria. I didn’t.

They thought I may have Typhoid. I did.

It’s been called the poor people’s disease and I think that’s a pretty dumb thing. (Oh MJ, why did you have to go??)

I asked the doctor what options were available, secretly hoping that there was an injection that they could administer that would magically make it all go away. Seriously, I didn’t care where that needle was going to be stuck, provided I was fit for thirty first (yeah, take that one too).

There was an injection, but it was one of those intravenous (read; drip) things and I would;

  1. 1- have to endure about 15 minutes of drip drip action (thing is, they’d said that my blood test results would be ready in 10 minutes, then proceeded to walk the dog and bring them back after 30. Clearly they were liberal with their minutes, there was no telling how long I would be in union with syringe)
  2. 2- feel very very nauseous after all that. I’d gone to bed feeling like if I put my mind to it, my walls would be covered in a new coat of ewwww.

So we settled for pills. Actually, that’s a lie. The lady with the certificate really wanted to give me the injection, but I politely declined. Even her pleas that I take one “starter dose” was met with a well practiced, soon to be perfected shake of the head.

She said it was alright and proceeded to write out a prescription for me. Between you and I, I’ve been to pharmacies that stock less drugs than the stuff that was on that slip os paper.

Oh, and it would take me way past New Year’s day. Naturally, I asked the most pertinent question at the moment…

“So, can I drink?”

she: drink what?

Me: alcohol

She: what alcohol do you usually drink…

I paused for a bit here. I have never thought of myself as a rigid drinker. Do I infact have one particular poison?

Me: oh you know, er, uhm… *cough cough* beer… whisky… the usual

She: You can drink wine

Me: Huh.. what?

She: What’s wine made out of?

Me: Er… fruit

She: There you go

{what the heck is sambucca made out of… isn’t one of these drinks made out of jackfruit? You know the one… the thing that tastes like funny scented glue}

I thought things couldn’t get any worse.

I was wrong. Come on, you saw THAT coming.

The lady in charge of dispensing the drugs made a show of the whole thing, it felt like I was back in primary school;

“This one is 1 times 2. Strictly after meals”

This was, in fact, written on the little medicine pack.

“You take one, eh. Two times a day. After you have eaten food.”

I think that’s what the pack had written on it, but shit, what do I know? I have Typhoid…and a pair of eyes.

“So, if you take one now, you take the next one after 12 hours… after food.”

Well, I’ll be damned. Does that then mean that I should take 1 two times a day after meals?

The math lesson went on with all the drugs and a part of me felt really bad that none had to be administered with every bowel movement. I’d have wanted to see how graphic she would get. 

“Kati, let me go to the toilet and then come back and swallow this medicine…you get?”

Obviously, I sought a second opinion.

My other doctor, the one I would have called Dr. Favourite if I was Carrie Bradshaw or one of those happy males that watch Sex & The City, said I was on the right track. Except for the Ibuprofen (whoa! I got the spelling right, bring on the Spelling Bee). 

Apparently, my stomach was going through enough shi… stuff as it was, throwing in a drug that had some acidic tendencies was NOT going to do me any favours. So I asked whether I could take my personal favourite; Zerodol. (How is it that Microsoft Word gives these things the green light, but is quick to throw squiggly red lines under Eid?)

Oh, and as to the question to end all questions, yes, I can drink one or two beers. After all, I need my fluids, right?

Man, I love the Hippocratic oath.

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