THE GREAT GADFLY:

That Certain Touch Of SARS



Well, I just don't know when the last time was that I've been this sick. I took the day off today, and I'm most likely going to be taking the day off tomorrow. I've yet to visit a doctor since I've moved to Chicago, and unfortunately, if I stay home tomorrow, I see no other option than to finally meet the man I chose at random when I started my current job and had to fill out my healthcare paperwork. I have no idea who this man is.

He could be Dr. Moreau for all I know, and he will inject monkey brains into my lungs. He could be Dr. Seuss for all I know, and give me green eggs and ham pills. He could be Dr. Who for all I know, and I might have to undergo acupuncture from a Dalek. He could be Dr. Fink for all I know, and he will prescribe me Prince's 1999 album. He could be Dr. Doom for all I know, and trap me in a dungeon with the Fantastic Four. He could be Dr. Love for all I know, and he might keep me up all night telling me about his woman's cruel lovin'. He could be Dr. McCoy for all I know, and transport me into a wormhole. He could be Dr. Doctor for all I know...can't you feel I'm burnin', burnin'? He could be Dr. Hugo for all I know, and he may suggest that I take on a number of disguises while someone sticks a hand up my butt. He could be Dr. Strangelove for all I know, and he will suggest that I learn to love the bomb. He could be Dr. Feelgood for all I know and....well, maybe that wouldn't be so bad.

The point is, I don't know this man. I've been asking around over the past few months about a good doctor in the city, and apparently nobody gets ill in Chicago. Maybe city tradition is that I should go limping off into the woods to die in dignity, I don't know. Or maybe my randomly chosen doctor is actually a right on practitioner. It could happen.

I had an idiot doctor when I lived in NYC who, after I wore myself out so badly from working two fulltime jobs, told me I merely had a touch of the lyme disease. This, after nearly getting into a shouting match when I couldn't answer her primary question of, "well, what do you THINK is wrong with you?" She was kind of like Julia Louis-Dreyfuss' character on "Seinfeld", only not quite as loving or compassionate. Heh.

Then I was introduced to Dr. Bob, who was a dreamy queer doctor in the East Village with the bedside manner of Robert Young and a beautifully refreshing no-holds-barred attitude about communication. He rocked. I wish I could have brought him out here with me, because he was truly the best doctor ever. I got spoiled. I went to the doctor regularly, even.

And now I'm here, and I'm a bit afraid that I've chosen a trembling, smelly, clammy-fisted xenophobe of a doctor. I'm afraid I've chosen Charleton Heston as my current quack. Oh no. No no no.

And of course, I have no proof to back up my fears. I just know I don't have very good luck with making random choices. That's all.

Meanwhile, everyone I've talked to today via phone has asked me what color my phlegm is, and I very nearly took to wearing sunglasses in my apartment today because the sun was burning my eyeballs out of my head. Everything feels and tastes and sounds bizarre, and I ache as if somebody has beaten the crap out of me.

And my temperature broke 100 tonight! Whee! You know, they just don't make Hallmark cards for occasions like this.

Ugh. Enough of this convalescent whining. I'm going to trundle my heft to bed, where a wide world of fever dreams await. I can't wait to go to the magical sleepytime land of black bloody monkeytrees and pornographic spidermen.

Mommy???


2003-10-14 - Last Haiku
2003-10-09 - Don't Cry Out Loud
2003-10-09 - Sit Down, You're Making Me Nervous
2003-10-08 - I'm Sure Miss Thing, I'm Sure
2003-10-07 - Carbonated Water, Caramel Color, Aspartame

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