Last week, in an ultra-rare instance of failure on the part of my immune system, I was taken with an old-man cold that stubbornly planted camp in my lungs, making wet-leaf fires, keeping me up all night with his drunken tirades, and using my esophagus as his own personal latrine. I tolerated the intrusion for a while. With equal bullheadedness I burned through my days, refusing to acknowledge the wayward hitchhiker squatting on my inland empire. Then, on Monday, I nearly fainted in the shower, and by Thursday I was confined to bed, eating green tea ice cream and taking naps between watching four episode blocks of Lost. Juli pleaded with me to go to the doctor. She said, "You can go to the ENT behind Seiyu. He’s really old and gentle and speaks flawless English. Plus, you can get your ear checked out." For the past few months my ear has been beleaguered by a searing intermittent pain, purely external, which Juli had convinced me was a symptom of TMJ, otherwise known as "Tough-shit, Mandible Joint."
So with Juli in tow I went, trudged up the hill hacking and moaning and spitting out the mouthfuls of mustardy afterbirth that eked laboriously up from my throat. I checked in with the nurses, somehow making my symptoms understood with the universal sign-language for yes, my nose is running, and yes I sound like a tuberculosis patient in a Civil War-era hospice. In the waiting room, a doughy mother eyed me suspiciously and held back her literally snot-nosed children from entering the flight path of my fierce gaijin cough.
Eventually, I was ushered in to see the ENT, a turtle-ish Dr. Strangelove with small round maniac glasses above his white surgeon’s mask. My first thought, somewhat guiltily, was he’s old enough to be a war criminal. I remembered Shusaku Endo’s The Sea and Poison—grim vivisections, punctured lungs, and cold salt water drained into the blue veins of U.S. POWs. Here I am, the same age as the soldiers this mad doctor likely dismantled. I was conscious of my mind vaulting to ridiculous, arguably racist conclusions. The doctor was leaned over his desk, making notes with the kind of stubby pencil you get at miniature golf courses. It had been a minute since I had entered and he still hadn’t said anything.
"Hello," I said.
"Ah, hello." He kept on jotting. "What is the trouble?" His voice was papery and high and stretched.
"Well, I have a cough and a runny nose and…"
"Any fever?" He looked up and swiveled his chair to face me.
"No, not now. Earlier this week, Monday, I think I had a fever."
"What was your temperature?"
"I don’t know. I didn’t check. But it felt high."
"How long have you been coughing?"
"About three weeks, maybe a month."
"Since February 9?"
"Around then."
"Why didn’t you go to the doctor?"
"I guess I’m stubborn."
"Any trouble with inspiration?"
"I’m sorry?"
"With inspiration. Your breathing."
"No, no. Just coughing really. Also, the reason I came to you is my wife has been here before. Julianna Broadwater."
"She has?"
"Yes. And I’ve been having this burning pain in my left ear, just on the outside, and I’m not sure what’s causing it, maybe TMJ."
He let out a loud, singular laugh and rolled toward me in his chair. "I don’t think so." Without warning he pushed me sideways against the green leather headrest and held me there with a Vulcan telepathy grip on my temple. I could feel him put something in my ear and felt heat from a burst of light. He was probing close to my eardrum and I winced against the metallic cold.
"Do you feel an itching?"
"No. I just think…"
He loosened his grip and wiped a small hard ball of amber wax on my forearm.
"A present for you."
By this time I was nervous and thinking that at any moment he could produce a scalpel from inside of his sleeve and flay my cheeks open in a kuchisake-onna grin so that he might have a better view of my tonsils. I stared warily as he rolled to his instrument table and grabbed what I assume was a forked, metal tongue depressor. He grabbed my jaw as if to pry open my mouth and, when I fearfully complied, stuck the thing so far down my throat that I began gagging and tried to push him away. I caught my breath as he held the depressor above my face like a bayonet.
"I can’t, I’m going to throw up."
"One more time."
I reluctantly opened my mouth again and the depressor went in further this time, scraping up against my uvula, causing a wall of bile to rise in the back of my mouth.
"Stop," I gasped. He put down the depressor and motioned for the nurse.
"Go with the nurse. I will prescribe medicine for your cough and inspiration. Come back tomorrow at this time, good?"
As I was leaving I grabbed a tissue from off his desk so I could wipe away my present.
Needless to say, I didn’t go back the next day. When I got to the pharmacy, I found out that he had prescribed eight different medicines, including an inhaler for my inspiration. Juli was bewildered, as she had had a really great experience with the guy a few months ago. I’m not sure why he was so rough with me. Maybe I was giving him flashbacks?
So with Juli in tow I went, trudged up the hill hacking and moaning and spitting out the mouthfuls of mustardy afterbirth that eked laboriously up from my throat. I checked in with the nurses, somehow making my symptoms understood with the universal sign-language for yes, my nose is running, and yes I sound like a tuberculosis patient in a Civil War-era hospice. In the waiting room, a doughy mother eyed me suspiciously and held back her literally snot-nosed children from entering the flight path of my fierce gaijin cough.
Eventually, I was ushered in to see the ENT, a turtle-ish Dr. Strangelove with small round maniac glasses above his white surgeon’s mask. My first thought, somewhat guiltily, was he’s old enough to be a war criminal. I remembered Shusaku Endo’s The Sea and Poison—grim vivisections, punctured lungs, and cold salt water drained into the blue veins of U.S. POWs. Here I am, the same age as the soldiers this mad doctor likely dismantled. I was conscious of my mind vaulting to ridiculous, arguably racist conclusions. The doctor was leaned over his desk, making notes with the kind of stubby pencil you get at miniature golf courses. It had been a minute since I had entered and he still hadn’t said anything.
"Hello," I said.
"Ah, hello." He kept on jotting. "What is the trouble?" His voice was papery and high and stretched.
"Well, I have a cough and a runny nose and…"
"Any fever?" He looked up and swiveled his chair to face me.
"No, not now. Earlier this week, Monday, I think I had a fever."
"What was your temperature?"
"I don’t know. I didn’t check. But it felt high."
"How long have you been coughing?"
"About three weeks, maybe a month."
"Since February 9?"
"Around then."
"Why didn’t you go to the doctor?"
"I guess I’m stubborn."
"Any trouble with inspiration?"
"I’m sorry?"
"With inspiration. Your breathing."
"No, no. Just coughing really. Also, the reason I came to you is my wife has been here before. Julianna Broadwater."
"She has?"
"Yes. And I’ve been having this burning pain in my left ear, just on the outside, and I’m not sure what’s causing it, maybe TMJ."
He let out a loud, singular laugh and rolled toward me in his chair. "I don’t think so." Without warning he pushed me sideways against the green leather headrest and held me there with a Vulcan telepathy grip on my temple. I could feel him put something in my ear and felt heat from a burst of light. He was probing close to my eardrum and I winced against the metallic cold.
"Do you feel an itching?"
"No. I just think…"
He loosened his grip and wiped a small hard ball of amber wax on my forearm.
"A present for you."
By this time I was nervous and thinking that at any moment he could produce a scalpel from inside of his sleeve and flay my cheeks open in a kuchisake-onna grin so that he might have a better view of my tonsils. I stared warily as he rolled to his instrument table and grabbed what I assume was a forked, metal tongue depressor. He grabbed my jaw as if to pry open my mouth and, when I fearfully complied, stuck the thing so far down my throat that I began gagging and tried to push him away. I caught my breath as he held the depressor above my face like a bayonet.
"I can’t, I’m going to throw up."
"One more time."
I reluctantly opened my mouth again and the depressor went in further this time, scraping up against my uvula, causing a wall of bile to rise in the back of my mouth.
"Stop," I gasped. He put down the depressor and motioned for the nurse.
"Go with the nurse. I will prescribe medicine for your cough and inspiration. Come back tomorrow at this time, good?"
As I was leaving I grabbed a tissue from off his desk so I could wipe away my present.
Needless to say, I didn’t go back the next day. When I got to the pharmacy, I found out that he had prescribed eight different medicines, including an inhaler for my inspiration. Juli was bewildered, as she had had a really great experience with the guy a few months ago. I’m not sure why he was so rough with me. Maybe I was giving him flashbacks?
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