Oh, Portent?
I felt I had no choice but to visit a doctor, since I was potentially compromising career opportunities with a sickness that had officially become the longest of my adult life the previous day. I arrived at the doctor’s office a few minutes late and settled into a chair with a thick book, ready to wait out the endless tedium of killing time while a doctor takes his or her time listening to pharmaceutical representatives pitch their latest hot-ticket item to be pushed prescribed.
It took less than three minutes for my name to be called. I initially assumed the call to be a cruel joke and did not respond. The attending nurse shot me an irritated glance and spoke my name again, louder this time. I sprang to action quickly and nearly passed out as a cone of blackness raced in from my peripheral vision. Lying down for four days straight does weird things to one’s circulation. I managed to stagger through the door, still skeptical but more focused on trying not to collapse in the doctor’s office which I was sure would lead to unnecessary measures like hospital stays.
The wait in the room with the paper-covered bed wasn’t terribly long either. I began to scan my surroundings for signs of reality television crews enaged in one of their “punkings” and found no evidence to suggest such a thing.
Eventually the doctor came in, listened intently to my chest with his stethoscope and finally declared me in need of chest X-rays. The process of getting pictures taken of my insides was only disconcerting in that anything which involves using clothing that is made from some type of metal and may or may not be capable of stopping high velocity projectiles such as bullets is, very generally speaking, not something I care to be involved in. The lead apron I was required to wear to “protect my future children” was not exactly driving a sense of calm relaxation into my mind.
But the results suggested only a case of bronchitis from infections which could be readily handled by a quick week’s regimen of antibiotics. The doctor suggested in what I can only fathom was supposed to be a warning tone that had I not come in earlier, the bronchitis would surely have led, eventually, to pneumonia. I’m unclear on exactly why the warning was necessary; my being there in fact did suggest that I had chosen to seek medical attention at the appropriate time. Maybe he wanted to let me know that the next time I get Experimental Alien Influenza, I should be sure to do the same thing.
Wednesday morning I finally felt at least reasonably normal. There is, of course, nothing normal about an alarm that rings at six o’clock in the morning, but in terms of general misery I was operating on the much improved scale of maybe five instead of 6,328 out of ten.
The drive took an hour. The actual distance can be covered in twenty-five minutes (or fifteen if you’re Nikki or HB… I drive slow) but during the commute hours much of the additional time is spent on an eight mile stretch of I-580 that cuts through Livermore. I’m not exactly clear why this particular segment of highway causes drivers such consternation; that is, I cannot pinpoint what their general needs are which require such drastic actions as coming to repeated full and complete stops. Sure there are a lot of people trying to traverse the same stretch of road, but usually after a certain exit (Airway Boulevard) things clear up enough to where people can adjust the gas-to-brake pedal ratio back to around 80:20. What happens at this magical on/off ramp?
I arrived at work and climbed up to the third floor, mind filled with not only the usual first-day jitters but also a deeper apprehension for the effect my ill-timed decommission would have on people’s perceptions, expectations and assumptions. Was this just an amusing anecdote to recall years later or a dire omen of how this new chapter would unfold? I coughed lightly into my palm, took a breath and decided to find out.
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