Flu season is upon us and against our will, my husband and I are participating. He started it. He usually does. And he shared it with me. Coughiung, sputtering, sneezing, nose blowing - the usual detritus of illness beside my bed. Cough drops, water bottle, kleenex old and new. Yeah. Until one morning I woke up, after five days of hacking and sniffing and thought, "This is much, much worse." I couldn't think, couldn't put on my glasses, my head ached and when I blew my nose . . . .we shall draw a curtain of charity on this scene. Suffice it to say, I was in bad shape. I got dressed in a haze, drove to the hospital in a haze, hoping that I wouldn't have to explain and justify why I needed medicine. My previous doctor didn't always listen to my self-diagnosing and would often balk at prescribing me something unless I could explain the symptoms in gory detail. No deviation. So I was suspecting I might have the same difficulty this time around, with my new doctor. However, I was pleasantly surprised. I sat on the bed in the outpatients department as my doctor listened to my chest, explaining that I had to lift my shirt so he could. He asked me a couple of questions, he scribbled something on the magic pad and I had my entree into the wonderful world of antibiotics. When I was relating my "I was a patient" story to my husband and how easy it all went, he looked at me and frowned.
"Did you wear that shirt to the hospital?" he asked.
I knew it was clean. I grew up with a mother who always told us to put on clean underwear anytime we left the house. Just in case.
"Yes. It's not dirty is it?"
He laughed. "No it's perfectly clean, but no wonder you got the prescription so fast. That doctor took one look at you and said, this is one siiiick woman. Your put your shirt on inside out."