Whaddaya know! Poof! Feel great, yesiree!
Years ago (I am reasonably sure it was 2000, but I would not stake my life on it), the husbeast and I had an... incident, you could say. The annoying start of a trend, you could say.
2000 was the year my mother was sick in Ohio, and I was living in Hawaii. Well, there were three years like that, but 2000 is the year I logged enough miles (in planes) to go around the earth more than once. (I quit keeping track. It was depressing.) Between the stress, the jet lag, and the fact that planes are seething pits of germs, I got sick. A lot. All the time.
The husbeast, unreasonably, I thought, found this upsetting and worrisome.
I kept explaining that it was a series of colds. I was run down. I was on planes all the time. I WAS FINE. His answer to this, after a few months, was to make a doctor's appointment for me, haul me down there, and physically shove me into Dr. R's office. Given no choice about it (the husbeast, y'all may have noticed, is considerably larger than I am), I arrived at the doctor's office spitting mad. Dr. R asked me what was wrong, and I delivered a five-minute rant that started with "I've been sick for a couple months".
It took some effort, but Dr. R did not laugh. He did allow that my being sick for months did seem like a reasonable thing for the husbeast to be upset about. (Bah. Dr. R ALWAYS sided with the husbeast.) However, he did agree with my assessment, wrote me a prescription for chicken noodle soup and bunny slippers (seriously; I loved that guy), told the husbeast I was fine, and turned me loose. You could tell Dr. R loved the whole thing.
Spring in Hawaii, I used to get pneumonia. Some pollinating plant or other combined in unholy union with my asthma, and if I wasn't super careful, blammo. (One of the few things I found truly annoying about living there.) I would resist going to the doctor, usually giving in (with no grace whatsoever) when the husbeast made noises about taking me. Again stress reared its fucking head, though, and got the better of me.
I'd been in a nasty, four year long lawsuit, and we had just about settled the whole damn thing, when the plants pollinated and my asthma went crazy. I figured I could sleep it off. (In my defense, some years, I really could.) I felt worse and worse, my voice began to disappear, and a fever started creeping in. BUT I WAS FINE, DAMN IT. Then, one afternoon, the husbeast called. You guessed it. He informed me I could go in my pajamas, wrapped in a blanket, or I could get dressed. He was on his way to pick me up at that moment.
I got dressed.
By then, Dr. R was using the husbeast as a gauge for how sick I was; if the husbeast appeared with me in the waiting room, it was time for concern. I went into the exam room. The husbeast waited. I came out (imagine, if you will; doctor, nurses, receptionist, patients all over) and told the husbeast, "It's pneumonia again." He replied, "YOU DUMBASS". Everyone gasped. I rolled my eyes.
Down at the pharmacy, they asked me if I'd had those drugs before. I said yes, I'd taken them when I had pneumonia the year before. The husbeast said "YOU DUMBASS". The pharmacists and customers were horrified. I rolled my eyes.
So, this Friday on the phone, the husbeast said "you've been sick for two weeks. It's probably time you saw Dr. B." After some quick negotiation, I have the weekend and if I'm not doing better Monday, I can make my own appointment or I'm sure the husbeast will do it for me.
I FEEL JUST FINE, DAMN IT.
(We'll get back to the knit-along Monday, latest. Thanks for your patience.)