Ok, the allergies about which I've complained here and elsewhere: apparently not allergies.
Against my better judgment I went to the doctor who has decided I have bronchitis and prescribed zithro, plus some type of souped-up cough syrup with codeine. Thus I find myself bringing my lost weekend to a close. Lost weekend sounds vaguely fun but consisted of me sleeping on the couch, reading poetry, watching the Tigers (yay, a sweep) and Monuments Men (meh), and being jealous of Nicole who got to go make Armenian food without me last night. Inshallah I'm on the mend and back to the office tomorrow.
I rarely go to the doctor willingly (though I love both my family doctor and my neurologist!) for all kinds of reasons: don't like to be weighed, don't feel like I answer questions well, often feel like I get the "why are you here just deal with your mild cold like the rest of the world does!!" stink eye. And Friday's my doctor's day off, so I had to see Dr. Other Guy In Office ("Dr. Ogio" for short).
Things didn't start well. The nurse bellowed into the waiting room a word that sounded like "William" so I got up and followed her. She took my weight, height, and blood pressure, listened to my chest, and wrote down my symptoms, telling me to wait for Dr. Ogio. After a few minutes she came back into the exam room and stared me down. "Everything ok?" I ask. "When I said 'Williams,' you got up and followed me," she says with a sneer. I realize what's happened. "I thought you said 'William,' which is my first name. She turns around and slams the examination door.
I contemplate whether or not to leave. After a few minutes, she opens door and gives me clipboard with HIPA forms and no pen. She's got a very slender, elderly, African-American woman with her (Ms. Williams), whose chart now has her weighing at least 150 pounds more than she probably did upon her last visit.
This is why I hate going to the doctor. My awkward meter--already operating at capacity--seems to get ratcheted even higher.