Take Care

Mucils and laxes and gases and stools. The waiting area plops you right in front of every box and bottle bearing these words. Soften this and quicken that, fiber fiber how many times a day. By the time my appointment rolls around I almost forget why I'm there, and my bowels are ready for a tremendous movement.

She says her name is Jan and she's a nurse practitioner. I don't know what that is exactly but I'm guessing it's somewhere between nurse and doctor, otherwise why would there be a separate name for it? It's a small office, smaller than my bedroom. She probably only sees daylight when she pops her head out to get the next patient, or some Skittles.

My throat has been sore for weeks. Jan asks if I've been taking anything and I say the usual things. I'm drinking plenty of fluids (I don't say which ones), gargling saltwater, trying to only speak when absolutely necessary (which is something I could stand to do more of anyway). There's a rumbling inside me and I wish the office weren't so darn small.

It's been rough. It's been what one might call a bender. It's been late nights and even later mornings, turning my apartment into a recycling bin hour by hour. Raising my voice at friends, at family, at myself, at anyone who'll listen and mostly people who won't. This takes its toll, things turn red, get ripped up, swollen, worn, forgotten. I forget how to take care of myself sometimes.

I just can't help it any longer and I let a small, soft, quiet one squeak through. I think I'm in the clear, that it was small enough I shouldn't have to worry. But it eventually reaches my darn olfactories, the one sense that somehow hasn't been damaged by my recent debauchery. She chooses now to get the stethoscope out and have me breath, and I think I'm saved. I start sucking in air. She tells me to stop, that I only need to breath how I normally breath. I don't stop. She tells me to stop again, but stops her own self. Stops at the evidence. I shake it off. It's a small office, I'm sure she's been through far, far worse, and it's likely I'll never see her again.

She prescribes me some antibiotics, but tells me all I really need to do is knock everything off. Eat better, drink less, get sleep, rest voice. They are easy words muttered by a passerby. I tell her she's right. But I'm lying of course. It's hard not to when there's a discount on liquor right outside the door.