The second day of unfulfilled sickness provided a slightly
accentuated scratchy throat, like a cat’s tongue. Both days I couldn’t decipher
if the coughing was caused by unfulfilled sickness or my current blood pressure
medication of which coughing is a known side effect. The delusional mental
states and the endless erection are purely me. My head was weary but I had yet to encounter
any nasal problems – no dripping, no sneezing. Another workout completed the active portions
of my evening.
Flash forward three days – I’m supposed to be at an island
on vacation. I defy unfulfilled sickness. I refuse the ascension of unfulfilled
sickness. I made the doctor’s appointment earlier today; an episode unto itself.
The nurse-receptionist: I have Robert available at two. How does that sound?
When I made the phone call, I wasn’t upset, but hearing the maximum
casualness in her voice, calling this hopeful professional whom I’m entrusting
with a short sampling with the well-being of my life by his first name like she’d
just removed her wet undergarments from drying out of his microwave – it rubbed
me the wrong way. Was Robert the janitor going to treat me? Robert the laundry
truck driver?
My reply: Robert better have Dr. in front of his name. If
so, two o’clock would be fine.
Unfulfilled sickness be damned.
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