my
stomach off again. He’s trying to preserve his interiors. He’s also stopped to
dress my wound twice, with dressings he bought from the chemist on his second stop
there today.
Finally, he parks
the car outside Dr. Downer’s rooms.
“We’re
here,” he says, looking as relieved as I feel. This has been an epic journey
for a trip that was only ten kilometres, if that.
As I enter
the packed waiting room and make my way to the reception desk, a collective
gasp of horror emanates from the chairs around me, so I put on my jolliest
face. I know I look a fright. I do not need these people to confirm it.
“’Morning,
June.”
“What on
earth happened to you?” asks the receptionist, barely hiding her shock. My carefully
styled outfit is nothing more than a bedraggled mess. My shoes are covered in
vomit, my hair smells like spew and my top, which has dried pus down one side,
has stuck to my body. Not to mention my face looks like one of the zombies from
Michael Jackson’s Thriller video.
“I had an
argument with my wound. I think the wound is winning.” I give her a wan smile.
“Why didn’t
you cancel, love? You look like death warmed up.”
And served
on toast, I think.
“I want the
drain out.”
“Your GP
could have seen to it.”
Yeah, if I
wait till September.
I shrug. “I
didn’t look like this when I left home and once we were on the way, there was too
much traffic to turn around. Besides, I have a sneaking suspicion a doctor’s
rooms are where I’m meant to be right about now.”
She looks
sympathetic. “I think you might be right. Can I get you a glass of water?”
“Only if you
want me to throw up on your carpet.”
“That bad,
huh?”
I nod sadly.
“Look, I know you’re packed and I’m early but is there any chance Dr. Downer
could squeeze me in now or at least get me a bucket while I wait. I think I’m
going to be sick again.”
The
receptionist consults her computer. Then a woman, wearing an aqua turban and a
matching drain under each arm approaches the desk. The woman has no hair and no
breasts but she has the friendliest smile I’ve ever seen. “I’m next, June,” she
says. “But let this one go first. She looks like she could do with a break.”
“Are you
sure?” I could kiss her.
“Positive. I
can wait another twenty minutes. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”
Gratefully,
I sag into a chair and wait my turn.
*****
“I think
I’ll admit you to hospital,” Dr. Downer says, as she’s sucking the fluid from
my wound with a big long syringe. “We need to get this infection under
control.”
I give her
my most pleading look. Hospital is the last place I want to be, I want to go
home and be with the boys and go to work and put this ordeal behind me. I can’t
take the idea of being in hospital again. “Do I have to? Please. I feel much
better now you’ve given me the Maxolon.”
I don’t
really, but at least the needle has stopped the vomiting. The two painkillers
Bev has brought over from the ward are beginning to take effect, too.
Dr. Downer turns
away to dispose of the drain she’s removed and take off her gloves. I think
she’s taken pity on me because she says, “Lay there for a bit and we’ll see how
you feel. But if you go home, I want you in here at nine in the morning so I
can drain the site again and make sure everything’s all right.”
“Of course.”
If I could jump from the bed at this stage I would, but I feel so weak I’m
lucky to smile.
Bev, who’s
still lurking, puts a hand over mine. “You’re getting a bit of colour back,”
she says. “You looked dreadful before. How long were you feeling ill for?”
“I wasn’t. I
felt fine, just a bit of a headache. Then I started throwing up.” I tell her
about our trip to the fire station and the emergency ramp and the chemist and
she lets out a loud laugh.
“Gosh,
you’ve had a rough trot.”
“I try to
create drama where I can.”
On the other
side of the
stomach off again. He’s trying to preserve his interiors. He’s also stopped to
dress my wound twice, with dressings he bought from the chemist on his second stop
there today.
Finally, he parks
the car outside Dr. Downer’s rooms.
“We’re
here,” he says, looking as relieved as I feel. This has been an epic journey
for a trip that was only ten kilometres, if that.
As I enter
the packed waiting room and make my way to the reception desk, a collective
gasp of horror emanates from the chairs around me, so I put on my jolliest
face. I know I look a fright. I do not need these people to confirm it.
“’Morning,
June.”
“What on
earth happened to you?” asks the receptionist, barely hiding her shock. My carefully
styled outfit is nothing more than a bedraggled mess. My shoes are covered in
vomit, my hair smells like spew and my top, which has dried pus down one side,
has stuck to my body. Not to mention my face looks like one of the zombies from
Michael Jackson’s Thriller video.
“I had an
argument with my wound. I think the wound is winning.” I give her a wan smile.
“Why didn’t
you cancel, love? You look like death warmed up.”
And served
on toast, I think.
“I want the
drain out.”
“Your GP
could have seen to it.”
Yeah, if I
wait till September.
I shrug. “I
didn’t look like this when I left home and once we were on the way, there was too
much traffic to turn around. Besides, I have a sneaking suspicion a doctor’s
rooms are where I’m meant to be right about now.”
She looks
sympathetic. “I think you might be right. Can I get you a glass of water?”
“Only if you
want me to throw up on your carpet.”
“That bad,
huh?”
I nod sadly.
“Look, I know you’re packed and I’m early but is there any chance Dr. Downer
could squeeze me in now or at least get me a bucket while I wait. I think I’m
going to be sick again.”
The
receptionist consults her computer. Then a woman, wearing an aqua turban and a
matching drain under each arm approaches the desk. The woman has no hair and no
breasts but she has the friendliest smile I’ve ever seen. “I’m next, June,” she
says. “But let this one go first. She looks like she could do with a break.”
“Are you
sure?” I could kiss her.
“Positive. I
can wait another twenty minutes. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”
Gratefully,
I sag into a chair and wait my turn.
*****
“I think
I’ll admit you to hospital,” Dr. Downer says, as she’s sucking the fluid from
my wound with a big long syringe. “We need to get this infection under
control.”
I give her
my most pleading look. Hospital is the last place I want to be, I want to go
home and be with the boys and go to work and put this ordeal behind me. I can’t
take the idea of being in hospital again. “Do I have to? Please. I feel much
better now you’ve given me the Maxolon.”
I don’t
really, but at least the needle has stopped the vomiting. The two painkillers
Bev has brought over from the ward are beginning to take effect, too.
Dr. Downer turns
away to dispose of the drain she’s removed and take off her gloves. I think
she’s taken pity on me because she says, “Lay there for a bit and we’ll see how
you feel. But if you go home, I want you in here at nine in the morning so I
can drain the site again and make sure everything’s all right.”
“Of course.”
If I could jump from the bed at this stage I would, but I feel so weak I’m
lucky to smile.
Bev, who’s
still lurking, puts a hand over mine. “You’re getting a bit of colour back,”
she says. “You looked dreadful before. How long were you feeling ill for?”
“I wasn’t. I
felt fine, just a bit of a headache. Then I started throwing up.” I tell her
about our trip to the fire station and the emergency ramp and the chemist and
she lets out a loud laugh.
“Gosh,
you’ve had a rough trot.”
“I try to
create drama where I can.”
On the other
side of the
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