Not to be outdone, I also pick up the popular virus doing the rounds; the one attacking the bronchial mechanism. It probably lodged in my sinuses in the jam-packed mall when a beehive purple rinse lady squeezes up against my back, sneezes, spreading a mixture smelling of ripe blue cheese immersed in stale papsak. The virus enjoys the surfing.
That same night come the hoesing and proesing, driving my Heidi up the wall. “To the spare room with you.” Next day sees no improvement, so I’m given the choice: either Doc Evert or hospital.
I’m bundled into the car, still in my tatty gown and holy slippers – and that on the town’s coldest, windiest and rainiest morning. Expecting a speeding fine flying down York Street.
The good doctor and his efficient Marie are awaiting my arrival like vultures on a kill.
About this surgery, it’s different – more like live theatre presenting a one man stage play. Before getting on with the job of pricking and prodding, doctor jocularly tells about patients he had just manhandled (sic). In my delirium I just make out something about Dallas the foot specialist, toe jam and fruit cake. Our doctor, also a qualified shrink, figures that a few funny stories will take the strain off the patient for a magic moment.
It does the trick.
I’m now ready to receive the full treatment with in-depth inspections up the nose, down the throat and into the ears. Then the freezing stethoscope against fevered body with the instruction to breathe in and out. It results in a paroxysm of coughing that has poor doc frantically groping for a nose guard. Too late. The virus is back in the surf.
But the show goes on.
Act Two. “Now for a double jab of muti to kill the germ dead. Bend over. We’ll practice on your right cheek and if that doesn’t work we’ll tackle the left one.” The practice shot hits an artery, with some of my precious O being absorbed in the assistant’s swabs.
“Not to worry, old son, the second one always gets home.” And it does, because I feel a prick – and then each painful drop of serum as it flows into a tiny vein unused to a flood of foreign fuels.
But I’m still alive and well on the mend. A satisfactory ending to a great act.
Doc enjoys a curtain call from a grateful patient.
