A scratchy throat is the first sign. Masking as a nagging tickle, my throat now throbs with pain each time I swallow. I know what comes next. By morning, I will have a full-fledged head cold. Yet, in spite of this knowledge about the sequence of symptoms I will inevitably develop, I insist upon following a complex pattern of diagnosis and treatment on the off chance the outcome might be different than, say, the previous seven other times I had a cold.
Stage One—Spousal Assistance. Moaning loudly and frequently usually gets my husband’s attention, but not for long. Rushing into the room while holding his breath, he hands me a cup of hot water with lemon (What? No Codeine?) and tells me to get some rest. Luckily for him, my throat hurts too badly for me to verbalize a response, so I make distinct hand gestures instead.
Stage Two—Sibling Intervention. Next, I call my sisters who, although not for-mal-ly trained in pharmaceutical studies, possess an impressive and extensive vocabulary of re-commended prescriptions. “You need some Erythro,” says Julie. “Or maybe a Z-Pack,” adds Cindy (we like to abbreviate our antibiotics like they do on Grey’s Anatomy). Both agree I am in dire need of Codeine. I love my sisters.
Stage Three—Maternal Guidance. A child can never be too old to call her mother who quickly assesses my situation and offers some antibiotics that have been in her refrigerator for the past six months. She thinks she might have some cough syrup with Codeine in her pantry if she can find it. I love my mother.
Stage Four—Surgical Contemplation. One of my friends tells me about an acquaintance who had a sore throat and needed emergency surgery to remove polyps the size of golf balls. Certain of my prognosis, I call the doctor and inform her receptionist that I’ve cleared my calendar for the rest of the week in anticipation for the throatectomy I’ll need (Dr. McDreamy did the procedure once, so I know it works.) My husband checks in to see if I drank the cup of hot water yet. No, Dr. Jeremiah Johnson, I’ve been a little busy adjusting my I.V. pole of fluids to stay hydrated.
Stage Five—Children Interruptus. Sleeping upright prevents further nose drippage until my children tap firmly on my shoulders. They said Dad sent them to find out what I was fixing for dinner. I suggest that, since their father is so talented at creating hot beverages with lemons, he consider making something for the children to eat. Then I give them the cup of water, telling them Dad would know exactly what I’d like for him to do with it.
Stage Six—Medical Prognosis. Finally, I see my doctor who twice re-scheduled my appointment. Personally, I think the patient with the appendectomy was overreacting. An appendix is optional, a throat is essential. After doing a rather cursory examination, the doctor scrawls some notes on her pad and wishes me well. I look down. She recommends use of a saline nasal spray three times a day, bed rest, and hot water with lemons. Clearly, my husband got to her.
Immediately, I drive to my sister’s house where my mother is waiting with a nice, big Codeine cocktail. We will flip through The Pill Book to analyze additional options. If all else fails, I’ll gulp down the dadgum cup of hot water with lemons.
Just don’t tell my husband.
