Thank you for all your well-wishes, dear readers o’mine. I am feeling better, if only just the tiniest bit better.
I have strep.
I hate strep. I know, you do, too, but I really, truly think I hate it more than you do. I had it chronically, pretty much my whole life, 3-5 times a year as long I can remember. Then, in 2002, I caught strep in New Zealand, came home, and had it for FOUR MONTHS. They couldn’t kill the damn thing. Imagine fever every day for four months, ulcerated throat for four sad, sad months. Antibiotics every day for four months. Nothing worked, and I had to have an "emergency" tonsillectomy (which in an HMO, means you wait for four months for the first "emergency" available surgery date).
So I had them out, which for you strep sufferers, is like thirty strep throats all at once. Never, ever believe the ice cream lie. It’s truly awful. My sweet little mama came up and stayed with me and treated me like I was five which was all I wanted, and then I never got strep again.
Five years with no strep. And now this?
The worst part? My dad left me a comment on my last post, reminding me of something that I’d tried so hard to forget, that he AND his brother both had their tonsils out twice, because they grew back. So when I was at the doctor, I asked, "Does it look like I have tonsils? Even though I had them out?" She said, "Well, those spots look like they’re on tonsils, all right. There’s something there." Bastards. Stupid tonsils. Lala says it will be great when I lose a finger — spontaneous regeneration! But for now, blearg.
So I’m grumpy and I can’t go to Bolinas tonight to watch the band play and I’d had it all set up — I had a room reserved for us up there, and I had Clara being boarded by my dog-walker’s friend (different story completely, but just fifteen minutes ago, I heard a man in OUR BACKYARD calling for Clara, then I see him coming up on our porch, so I leap out of bed and put on my robe, then I hear him in the kitchen and then he’s in the DINING ROOM, putting a rope-leash around Clara’s neck and all the dogs are freaking, and I fly out and ask, "Can I HELP you?" because even in scary times I resort to angry-but-polite-waitress speak, because that’s all I got, people, and it’s Raul, the guy with whom Clara’s supposed to stay for the weekend, but I cancelled with my dog-walker and she was supposed to cancel with him for me but apparently didn’t, and I’m so glad I put my robe on, even though I didn’t have the tie on it, since I dragged BOTH ends of it last night through the cream of asparagus soup Lala made me, and Raul and I had an awkward shaking-hands nice-to-meet-you moment while I desperately held the robe closed with my other hand. He fled out the same back door and out the back gate with the dogs barking at his heels, me not knowing quite WHAT to do. I suppose I could have let him out the front door, only he was gone so fast. Then I went in the bathroom where Lala had been showering and told her and she just gaped at me. She missed the whole thing.)
What was I saying? So yes, no fun for me. Whinge. But I am getting better, every day, and I just have to be patient. Lala’s taken the dogs to the park, so it’s quiet. Maybe it’s nap-time again. Yes.
PS – I think I picked the bug up at the zoo, where I took Dylan last week. I have pictures. I’ll show you soon.
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