Is it Mariko or is it the Cold?  

saxyjazzman 56M
26 posts
12/31/2005 12:21 am

Last Read:
3/5/2006 9:27 pm

Is it Mariko or is it the Cold?

Whatever. My upper respiratory system has turned to sand and my temp is over 39C. I’m collapsed on the rug all day, then around 3PM we find a doctor’s office still open on a Sunday. Elegant little place, lovely Japanese interiors, but where to park? The receptionist gestures across the street to a parking lot. There are three over there, so I make a guess. The wife is nervous though ‒ which slot? Hey, it’s Sunday, I’m thinking, we’ll be out of here soon enough. The wait drags on though. I’m slumped in a chair, head pounding. Wife says ask details again, and this time the lady says she thinks it’s slot number three. I check. Three is full, I’m in four. Did what I can. Let’s get my meds and get out of here.

Wife still nervous. Check one more time. Geez. Okay, here we go. And yes, suddenly here’s cop-on-a-bike and one irate lady driver. I apologize, running to move my car, but the lady’s got me blocked off with her van. Like I’m going to take off in a blaze of dust, fleeing from parking-space theft. He bangs on my window, a cute little 23 year-old cop. Let’s see the license, let’s see the registration. Geez. I get out and apologize again, but the hard thing in Japan is the abuse that people feel free to dump on you AFTER you apologize, the scoldings appropriate for a 10 year-old that broke a window with a baseball. Parking Lot Bitch is implacable, claims she waited for 30 minutes when we’d only been there 15. Won’t shut up.

I lose it.

“Why isn’t the damn space marked anyway? No one gave me clear instructions.” Little of which, given my Japanese skills is especially comprehensible. The wife shows up, scolding me for not groveling enough, which makes me even madder. At some point the Parking Lot Bitch reveals this has happened before, other patients parking in her space. Now I’m like, “Well then, WHY DIDN’T YOU WALK THE 50 FEET TO THE OFFICE AND COMPLAIN?” As if anyone were listening. Parking Lot Bitch runs off, comes back with the doctor. It’s a major scene: me, my wife, the baby cop-on-a-bike, Parking Lot Bitch, and the local doctor all getting it on. I’m yelling, “Hey, I’m sick here! I just wanna see the doc! And I don’t mean in a parking lot." But the bitch won’t move her car.

Finally she does, and it blows over. Back at the doctor’s, I’ve lost my place in line. More waiting. Finally, I’m admitted.

“I’ve got the influenza,” I mumble.

“Ah! You know what you have!” He’s really impressed.

“I’ve been an adult for several decades, I guess I know what the flu is.” Whew.

Doc comes over and warns me to be strong, then sticks this long wire up my nose halfway into my brain.

“Most people cry when I do that,” he offers.

I don’t. He goes away for a while and comes back to announce I have Type A influenza. Prescribes something for the high temperature, plus some weird machine I can inhale powder from.

Next morning, I nearly pass out coming out of the shower then retch up this vile yellow fluid. Probably the meds. Shoulda stayed home on the rug.

Must kill Parking Lot Bitch.

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