'Roid Rage

 

I had the weekend from hell. Harry apparently contracted some sort of form of the Beubonic Plague and spent the last five to seven days hacking up various parts of his anatomy. I feared for his life for the first few days, and then mine as I worried about catching it and then his, again, as I realized early Saturday that I may, in fact, kill him if he didn't go to the f'n emergency room.

So off we went, me as the wheel man and Harry as the slightly pale, weak and clammy passenger.

As his name is called we go through this song and dance:

"Do you want to come back with me?"

"Do you want me to come back with you?

"I don't care, do you want to come back?"

"Only if you want me to..."

Harry to the nurse: "Can my wife come back with me?"

"Only if you want her to" she says while scribbling on her clipboard what I can only guess is "DUMBASSES."

"Well, when you say it like that, I guess he has to want me to come back with him!" I joke and pick up my magazines, book, Harry's PSP, my sweatshirt and the latest copy of "Game Informer" and glance at the nurse. She's none too amused.

After a very short wait the Doctor arrives and starts to look over Harry.

"Have you seen anyone lately for these symptoms?" The nice doctor asks.

"Well, I went to a doctor in Princeton, WV but he told me to go home and take some NyQuil."

"Did he test you for influenza?"

The plague! THE PLAGUE! I think to myself.

"Nope. Just sent me on my way."

The doctor stands and listens to Harry's lungs and then looks in his ears and throat. He then announces that Harry is in the last stages of the flu along with a viral infection and a sinus infection.

The doctor taps away on his tablet pc: "Do you have any allergies to medicines?"

Harry shakes his head no.

"We don't know - he hasn't been to a doctor since his high school physical," I tattle from the corner, hiding behind my copy of "Blood Sucking Fiends" by Christopher Moore.

Harry looks at me like he could strangle me with the blood pressure cuff.

I'm not worried - he's as weak as a kitten. I can take him.

The doctor cracks a smile and tells Harry that he can come to see him in two weeks for a check-up - he'll be his new physician. He then gives him an antibiotic and a pack of steroids to combat the various ailments.

As we're leaving Harry's happily chatting up how he likes his new doctor and I turn to look at him: "Your penis better not shrink!" I say, lovingly and with concern (for myself).

"It will," he teased. "And I'm gonna gain weight and I'm gonna 'Pump You Up!'"

And other than the fact that I practically had to punt him out of bed this morning, he seems to be feeling better. But I shall wait at least a week to check and see if the 'roids had any, ahem, negative effects.