Cute Infections? No such thing...

Sunday evening, when I could no longer hold my head in a full upright position, I decided to let go of the delusion that my aching chest pains and hacking 45-packs-a-day-like cough were going to mysteriously disappear overnight. As much as it pained me to admit, I knew I had to go to the one place I avoid more fiercely than a church building. The doctor's office.

I can't think of one person who loves to spend hours in an oversized germ-infested holding pen of sniffing, snivelling, and spittling freaks just to eventually be diagnosed by a physician's assistant who obtained his license from a vocational school. Besides, my motto is that if I'm missing work, why would I waste my precious time visiting my pretentious doctor who berates me for not getting enough exercise and preaches that I shouldn't even be in the same zip code as someone who is smoking? (inhale deeply on a marlboro ultra light here, please) I completely loathe my doctor.

Since I needed cough syrup with codeine like an addict needs his crack, I compromised and went to the Urgent Care clinic by my house. The lady at the counter was pleasant enough, not like the bitch in the front office at my primary care physician's office. And, I found myself nearly sympathizing with a nurse at the counter who, during the entire time I was filling out the requisite paperwork, kept calmly repeating into the phone receiver "Ma'am, you'll have to bring your son in to get a prescription. We can't diagnose him over the phone." These are the people who would undoubtedly be in the waiting room later today. I'm secretly pleased that I had enough foresight to show up when the clinic opened.

I sat in the infested holding pen watching an infomercial for some pyramid scheme for at least 30 minutes before Nurse Paco called me into the side room to take my vitals.

"Have a seat," he says, gesturing to a chair with an arm cuff attached.

I glance furtively at the scale in the corner.

Perhaps he isn't going to weigh me? It is a silent prayer/question.

The blood pressure cuff squeezes my arm as Paco rubs a high-tech thermometer gadget across my forehead and behind my ear. I giggle and Paco smiles. "More accurate than a regular themometer," he says. I smile. This is like foreplay before the inevitable "get on the scale fatty."

He looks down my chart, verifies that I'm wheezy and breathless.

I confirm.

"Height and weight?"

I pause. Paco trusts that I'm going to give him an accurate weight?

"5'10," I say.

Paco waits, pen poised.

I give him a number about 30 lbs less than what I really weigh and say that is the best guess I can give him. Paco starts to write it down, looks over at me and says, "You can step on the scale if you aren't sure."

motherfucker

"No, honey," I say calmly, throwing my fat arms in the air, "no one really needs to verify that number."

Paco tells me to rejoin the other piglets in the holding pen.

Another 20 minutes tick by, followed by 20 more in a patient room at the sunny end of the building. If my temperature was normal before, it wasn't by the doctor finally arrived to give diagnosis. The room was about 120 degrees with no air flow. Since it was Urgent Care and they don't require that patients don the paper gown, I didn't even have a good reason to get naked to cool down.

The physician's assistant with the same name as me finally shows up, listens to me hack for a moment, and procures a magical instrument and a diagnosis of Acute Bronchitis.

I tell her there is nothing cute about it. She looks at me.

"This is a breathing machine," she snaps. "It has a steriod solution in it to help release the pain in your chest. Breathe normally," she hands me the tube and mouthpiece, "and I'll be back in about 10 minutes."

I place my lips around the mouthpiece, watching the smoky liquid rise through the clear plastic tube. I'm reminded of the first time I hit a bong. I start to giggle as I inhale deeply. Am I supposed to hold my breath to let the steriod get maximum exposure to my lung tissue? I chant to myself, hold it hold it hold it, exhale. Ahh. I'm just a bit shaky, but I continue to suck on the mouthpiece so that I can breathe freely. I repeat, taking hits off the Bong of Breath.

I wonder what those oxygen bars are like. I wonder if I've gotten all the steriod fluid out of the little medicine cup attached to the mouthpiece. I start flicking the medicine cup, much like a well practiced addict would flick her syringe of heroin. It was then that the PhysAssist decides to return to the room, armed with the prescriptions for the antibiotic and codeine cough syrup.

She looks at me. I stop, midflick, and hand her the plastic casing of the Breath Bong. She looks at the completely empty steroid cup and looks at me again. I take the prescription from her and run out the door.

I probably should find a different Urgent Care clinic the next time I need a fix.