Results tagged “public transport”

One morning, a number of years ago, I woke up with a sore throat. This, of course, was not completely unexpected, as most of my waking hours in recent weeks had been consumed with screaming matches and mentholated cigarettes. I went back to bed, and when I woke up again in the late afternoon, my throat was burning and dry. I grabbed wildly at the glass of water next to my bed, and brought it to my parched lips.

The pain was excruciating. It felt like I had, instead of drinking a slightly dusty glass of water as I planned, gulped down a mouthful of paint thinner which stripped the flesh from my throat in long, painful strips. I gathered my strength and went to the mirror, whereupon opening my mouth I saw a horrifying sight indeed. My throat was apparently the new gathering place for weeping open wounds--for there were dozens of them--frolicking gaily from my palate to my uvula.

I sat around the house complaining loudly and watching television in the hopes that my raw and inflamed sores would go away. Finally, I threw myself into some clothes, and slumped my way towards Sixteenth Street, to the �family clinic� I had chosen as my healthcare provider. By the time I got there, my mouth sores appeared to have joined forces and become one giant ulcer, and I was unable to drink, breathe or think.

I eventually made it to an examining room, and opened my mouth obediently for the doctor.

She looked at me condescendingly and said, �Miss, you have herpes.�

�What?� I squealed indignantly. �I do not!�

We went back and forth for a while, she trying to convince me of my herpes-positive status, and me defending my virtue to the teeth. Finally, she took a swab from my throat and left the room.

She left me there, paper clad and on a cold metal table for twenty long minutes, while I contemplated a future filled with internet dating sites aimed at those with STDS. Time passed interminably�as I sat there I began to worry about all of the other possible diseases I might have contracted during my many years of befriending sailors during Fleet Week.

The doctor finally came back in, with two lackeys trailing after her. They all examined my throat again, and after some whispers and nodding, the doctor announced that I did not, as previously assumed, have herpes.

I sat there, triumphant, as they quizzed me, trying to determine the cause of this strange and wonderful disease they decided that I had.

�Do you work at a daycare?� they asked.

�No,� I replied, firmly stating that I hadn�t spoken to anyone under thirty in at least six months.

The doctors then gave me my diagnosis�Hand, Foot and Mouth Disease�and claimed that she hadn�t recognized it as such because she hadn�t ever seen it in anyone over the age of two. Apparently my youthful charm and good looks had somehow left me susceptible to the maladies of childhood well into my own golden years.

It took another ten days for my mouth to return to its previous pristine state, and during this period I spent a significant amount of time reflecting on how I could have contracted this disgusting illness. Unfortunately, I had no specific children to blame, so I decided that it must have been the subway or from one of my petite, childlike friends. To this day it remains a mystery, and the story of how I was diagnosed with herpes has become standard first date dinner table conversation, much to the delight of all of my potential suitors.