The other night, frustrated with my own exhaustion and irritability from discomfort, I went to the local 24-hour clinic. My ears, the main source of complaint, had been plaguing me on and off since Christmas. I gave up on the notion that they would permanently heal if left unattended, that the bourbon with dinner was not going to help me do anything but sleep, and put my trust in the hands of whatever white coat was on staff that evening. The little people stayed at home with my husband.
After an hour’s wait and a rather curious exam with Doctor Deadpan, a man who seldom smiles much less releases any sort of emotion in his cold, direct, and factual exchanges, I learned what he looks like when surprised. Apparently, people with infections this severe are usually in considerable amounts of pain, can’t walk straight, and can’t eat; I was a living, breathing contradiction to the fine doctor’s medical training. I laughed as he lectured me on the virtues of antibiotics and staying warm, and urgently requested my return for a follow-up.
Note to self: There are some things bourbon can’t cure, but occasional use sure takes the edge off.
Later, I mused over the hour or so I had spent at the clinic. With the exception of occasional voices and squeaky shoes, the place had been incredibly quiet. I had slept uninterrupted on my gurney to the point of feeling refreshed when waking, even with all the swelling and tingling in my ears. No chatty, needy children. No dancing dog. Next time I need an adult time-out, I might just fake an illness or sprain something. At least with ears on the mend, I feel far less ornery and much more tolerant of the short people.
In the middle of all this, my little son has been quite the young ruffian. His Papa Doc touches on those antics in a blog here.