Why, yes, I am a grammar Nazi.
I’ve recently blogged about my trouble with allergy specialists, complaining that my first one died before he managed to help me and that my second one is as boomingly jovial as the first one, which frightens me to death. It is however commendable that my S. O. (Second One) hasn’t died after my first visit and that I survived my second appointment with her as well, though by the skin of my arm. Literally.
My new allergist probably has a history of scaring patients away because the nurse seemed ecstatic when she saw me in the empty waiting room. She took me in the allergist’s den straight away. The doctor looked grumpy, chastising me for having such a common surname that she couldn’t locate me in the patient list fast enough. She clearly wasn’t patient. I admitted my fault and apologised.
The doctor pulled my medical report from the first visit and cross-examined me to see if my testimony checks out. Though not under oath, I swore that I was still having health issues, same as I claimed two months ago. My allergist drew a deep sigh. Meanwhile, I was holding my breath. She nonchalantly waved me in direction of the nurse, who took me to spirometry tests and insisted that I breathe.
Despite much couching from the nurse, the tests didn’t turn out to the allergist’s liking. She accused me of being a couch potato. I pleaded guilty as charged. The allergist, aka the Big Sister, got mightily excited when examining the results, and I was wondering if she was trying to terrorise me to health. Seeing my lack of intelligent response to her chattiness ridden by medical jargon, she cut it out and prepared to resort to torture.
The allergist produced a set of needles and small bottles with liquids. I guessed it wouldn’t be liquor. If it were liquor, I’d be dead by alcohol poisoning within minutes, for she started systematically to inject a dose from each bottle in my forearm. And it is a truth universally acknowledged that you don’t mix your drinks. The doctor seemed to be enjoying the routine, and she tried and failed to coach me to small talk.
When as many as ten track marks accumulated on my arm, I suddenly felt a previously unfelt affinity with Trainspotting’s Ewan McGregor. The allergist, well pleased with her work, motioned me away to wait for reaction. I inquired with the nurse if such response as the last time should be expected, that is, a heart rate of 220 beats per minute and a sensation of exploding. The nurse denied that she was trying to kill me. I knew better.
The doctor suddenly shouted out at no one in particular, demanding my ENT results. Not a frequent hospital goer, I couldn’t decipher the Ear-Nose-Throat abbreviation and was wondering if she suspected that I was an E. T., the Extra-Terrestrial. It turned out that the allergist had neglected to send me off to her ENT colleague. She looked upset. I apologised. She gave me a death stare and told me to go the ENT person now.
So I went. The ENT specialist admitted me immediately, apparently in fear of wrath of the Big Sister. I’m very possessive about my nose and I allow no one to touch it. The mere idea of nose examination made me sick, so I arrived in the doctor’s office shivering like a rat in the rain. The doctor assured me that, at his advanced age, he is perfectly harmless. I assured him in turn that I’d rather go to a gynaecologist than an otolaryngologist.
The harmless ENT specialist eventually checked my nose rather than my other parts. He didn’t like it; meaning the nose. That makes two of us. The doctor tried and failed to convince me that I had troubles breathing because of a deviated nasal septum. He advised surgery, which consists basically of surgeons smashing your nose and then trying to fix it all new and better. Thanks, but no, thanks.
Under the pressure of this news, I nearly walked out of the hospital to never come back again. Then I remembered that my jacket and handbag remained in the allergist’s office. I also remembered my pierced forearm, and meekly returned. The allergist grabbed my arm and was all over me, evaluating the test results. Trying to appear composed, I initiated small talk. The doctor told me to shut up. So I did.
The test results were inconclusive. The doctor, somewhat appeased by me having apologised, inevitably inquired how I fared with her ENT colleague. Not too well, I told her, and handed in her colleague’s report. She asked when I wanted the surgery. I said never. She begged to differ. We had an argument, mostly consisting of her arguing and me being silent. I apologised and said that I’d have the surgery in January.
I get talked into terrible things too easily. But coming to terms with the prospect of having my nose operated on, I’m now actually considering taking an aesthetic surgery while at it. I never thought of submitting to the pain and the costs before, but I certainly hate my nose, and this seems like a good occasion to treat myself while undertaking the necessary surgery. What do you think about it? Help me decide!
This oldish photo from my 2012 Edinburgh trip is to remind us that as humanity, we are ultimately mortal. In response to WordPress Weekly Photo Challenge.
I’ve watched this inventive advertisement repeatedly, but I always cried too much to notice what it actually advertises. *spoiler* I hope it’s not dead geckos. *end of spoiler*
I shared the other day that the future of my academic life or death depended on whether or not the Dean would grant me an extension to complete my doctorate. And *drum roll* a letter by the dear Dean arrived today to this effect! I’ve been allowed another year to finish (or die in the attempt). So, thank you, Dean, and thank you, all, for your support. I love you. I mean, you warm my cold black heart, here and here.
Life in death.
Death is rest,
Rest is death.