I'm Not A Doctor, I Just Play One

Paging Doctor DD, Doctor DD, to the ER...

On Thursday afternoon, Aunt Genocide called.

"Is anybody sick?"
I paused. "Well, RH has a runny nose, because she's a baby so she always has a runny nose."
"Anyone else?"
"Well, I've got a tickle in the back of my throat. But that's it!"
"Oh good. I'm just getting over some bronchitis, and I really can't afford to get sick again."
"Don't worry about it, just come and have some fun."

And so the next day she drove into Chicago.

I made an epic dinner of loaded baked potatoes. It's the thing I make that Aunt Genocide likes best. Giant potatoes, roasted to absolute perfection, smothered in butter, caramelized onions, mushrooms Berkely, steamed broccoli, cheddar cheese, fake bacon, and sour cream.

Plus, a healthy side of fake ribs. (Steak for M.)

I haven't been able to eat large quantities of food for months, so I limited myself to half an overloaded potato. And I felt pretty good about it, overall.

Then the next morning came. As I wanted to give Aunt Genocide the whole vacation experience, I made a gigantic breakfast of California Benedict, pomegranates, mixed berries, and asparagus. With coffee and orange juice. I ate too much again. That was when DD puked all over the table.

My children possess the ability to puke at will, sort of as a manner of protest. But any time your kid pukes over breakfast... well...

That night at a marvelous Indian restaurant, I over ate AGAIN. By the time Aunt Genocide and I left our show (and if you haven't seen The Color Purple, you're missing out), I was feeling bad.

Not just bad, horrible.

Aunt Genocide watched me sweat in her passenger seat, warning me over and over not only that she would kill me if I got her sick, but that her boyfriend would kill her is passed it on to him.

So all night I tossed and turned. By morning it was clear that I had a kidney infection- fortunately not contagious.

But I just kept getting worse. By Monday night, I could hardly breathe. I was hacking and coughing, gasping for air. Eventually I gave up on corralling the kids, I lay down on the floor of the playroom to wait until bedtime.

"Mommy? Are you sick?"
"Yes honey, I'm sick."
"I'm going to check your blood pressure!"
"I'm going to look in your ears!"

The two four year olds used every tool in their doctor's kits. I got half a dozen shots.
"Think of something happy, mommy!"

They otoscoped my ears and nose.
"Your ears look good, Mommy!"

They checked my reflexes. They checked my temperature. They looked at my tonsils. They listened to my heart. And I just lay on the floor, coughing miserably.

SI and DD conferred in quiet tones. Then they reached a consensus. My ailment was beyond the scope of their medical knowledge.

Dr. RH, ready for surgery

They each grabbed a magic wand from the dress up box. I lay face down on the rug, wheezing into my shirt, until it became clear that even magic wouldn't save me. They needed to call in a specialist.

Up toddled RH, uneasy on her chubby, awkward legs.

With the sweetest bedside manner, she grabbed the abandoned doctor's kit.

With a gleeful grin, she double-measured my temperature. Then she checked the reflexes in my mouth. Then otoscoped my mouth. Listened to my heart beat, in my mouth. And checked my blood pressure... in my mouth.

She then wrapped her little arms around me and kissed my thigh.

"All done!"

Guess I'm cured.

Oh- and after a clinic visit, two types of inhalers, and a switch of antibiotic I've gotten a diagnosis from a real doctor, too. It's bronchitis.

I'm going to kill Aunt Genocide for this one.