Oh yeah, I've got a blog. I sometimes forget this, especially after long breaks away. In this case, I've been mentally away for about two weeks now, addressing a wicked chest cold. And I do mean wicked. Until yesterday, my days consisted almost exclusively of tissue, soup, podcasts, orange juice, staring into space, and blankets.
Monday, February 9, 2009
In an effort to avoid the doctor, I recently visited the pharmacist. This is an event for a do-it-yourself kind of healthcare-taker such as myself. (Tell me, what American is not?) I was wary of asking for help but sick enough that I felt I must in order to avoid a worse fate. So, clutching my credit card, I crudely described my symptoms (polite phlegm-related vocabulary comes late in the game) to the nice lady in the professional white coat.
My skepticism was really not allayed by her opening suggestion of a suppository for my sore throat. Even in my stupor I made sure to decline that one. I folded on the nasal spray, however; her enthusiasm was just too much (but not unwarranted, I later learned). As she made a stack of boxes just for me, I felt a bit like I had my own personal, homeopathically-aware shopper. This would have been fun if it weren't expensive and, well, just not fun. Spending nearly $50 at the pharmacy may fill your cabinet with drugs, but it doesn't get you any sympathy. Enthusiasm strictly limited to pharmaceutical products. (But I got better anyway.)