I’ve dealt with so much medical stuff over the years that I’ve gotten to be pretty decent at diagnosing myself, and often things going on with Dori, too. Sometimes it’s for things that I’ve had before, and other times for new stuff. For example, last year I woke up one morning and noticed that I’d broken out with blisters on my forehead, going up into my scalp. That was unusual. So I looked more closely, did a little online research, and thought, “Crap. I have shingles.”
Later that day, Dori was scheduled for a routine follow-up appointment with our family doctor, so I went along. When she was done, I asked the doc to take a quick look at me. He lifted up my hair, looked at my forehead, and said, “You’ve got shingles.” I was on anti-virals an hour later, and the whole shingles experience, while not exactly fun, was minor. Friends and relatives that have had it have just been in agony for weeks or months; my case was over in a week.
Yesterday, I noticed something awry with Dori, and said, “Hey, I think you have [redacted for her privacy], and maybe [also redacted]. Let’s get you seen by a doctor.” She made an appointment at Kaiser via their Web site, and we went down there today; I sat in. After examination, the doctor told her that she had [redacted] and [also redacted]. The doctor left the room, and I pumped my fist and said “Yes!” Not that I was happy she’s ill, of course, but it’s a relatively minor thing. She’ll need a brief course of drug treatment.
Dori looked over and said, “Congratulations, Dr. Negrino. I owe you a chicken.”
I said, “Yes, you do. And I want it to be a rubber chicken.”
Let it be known: my wife owes me a rubber chicken. Pay up, honey.
Rubber chicken soup?