One shot too many

There is a term of feline persuasion, used as a form of derision, which is used almost exclusively to describe the hirsute sex. I willingly submit that this entry paints a bull’s eye on my back.

I have a rash. Now there’s a good time waiting to happen. Throw in a little fever and it’s a real party. Toss in a wife with a proclivity for hypochondria, and you’ve got an off hours visit to the ER. Jealous? Yeah baby, I was in like Flynn.

It’s too bad hospitals don’t have “miles” programs for their best customers.

So I had a rash. No, I won’t disgust you with the details (I will tell you there weren’t any bodily fluids or secretions involved). Yes, I had a little fever. No, the ER staff didn’t know what it was (is). Lucky for me, they did know what they wanted to do about it.
1. Give me a big ass shot of steroids, “to help me sleep tonight.”
2. Give me a script for antibiotics, just in case their suspicion that one of the spots looked a little like an infected, right, too much detail,
3. Refer me to a specialist who can tell me the same thing, at half the out of pocket expense!

Back to this shot business. It turns out they inject this steroid stuff into your muscle. When the nurse sticks you, there’s this sickening feeling that you are on the wrong end of the sushi – sushi customer relationship. It doesn’t hurt that much – but you can tell by the feel that they’ve passed through multiple layers of tissue. No, the shot isn’t what hurt, it was the aftermath. As the minutes passed, I got this horrible feeling I knew why the nurse asked, “which hand do you write with?” She figured the arm that go the shot wouldn’t be fit for writing for a while. F&$%! that hurt. The nurse came back to check on me and I thought I might get weepy, “Please make it itch again,.”

It only took 30 minutes to recover enough range of motion to lift my hand to the steering wheel (something I knew would come in handy on my 5-speed stick Civic). Now that the Motrin has kicked in, I might even get some sleep.