All About Our Curse

Somewhere in our murky past one of our ancestors did something terrible to someone with power and we were cursed.  Not a major curse.  We’re not doomed to die a horrible death at a young age or anything.  Nope, for us it’s that medical situations always occur at the least convenient time.  A major tooth infection at the stage of pregnancy where you can’t take anything stronger than half a Panadol.  A fever when you’re on holidays down the coast and it’s a public holiday so all the chemists are closed.  Gall bladder attack at 4am on Christmas morning.  So I figure that whoever we annoyed either didn’t have a huge amount of power in the curse area or it was a reasonably minor infraction. 

For me personally all medical emergencies* happen at around 8.27pm on a Friday night.  Why 8.27pm?  Because I know that without treatment I will have a weekend of agony and my options quickly narrow to sitting it out in Emergency at the hospital or making it to the chemist before it shuts at 9pm.

Tonight I discovered a weird growth on my gum that wasn’t there this morning.  Inspection in the mirror reveals something like the stalk of a mushroom with a pale white head – something tells me it’s not going to blossom into a cute little red toadstool with white spots that will attract the local fairy population.

For once in his miserable doom-laden prophetic existence Dr Google fails to predict a particularly painful case of terminal cancer.  Instead I am reliably informed that I have an abscess that forms fast and signals deep, bone-destroying infection.  By the way, get immediate medical attention or the infection will get horrendously painful quite quickly.

I opt for the late-night medical centre where the receptionist laughs when I ask if I’ll be able to see a doctor before they close.  I take my weird growth to the local chemist.

I always feel a bit sorry for chemists.  First of all people want to talk about their weird and embarrassing health problems in private and there’s never anywhere private to talk about it.  Second, I feel like they’re that guy in the famous parable who chooses meaningless work with no recognition and lots of pay instead of the low pay, high recognition job that means something.

I mean, let’s face it, most chemists probably know about 90% of what your doctor knows and can diagnose a patient just as well.  But all they can give you is Panadol and teething gel.  They’re getting paid well and they don’t have to spend any of it on medical insurance but it seems like a pretty raw deal to me.

One look at my weird mushroom-in-waiting and Ms Chemist agrees with Dr Google.  I can tell by the grimace that what I’m in for is not pleasant.  She reassures me that I don’t need to go to hospital (yet), agrees that the infection will get worse before it gets better and asks me what sort of pain killers I have at home.

I tell her the strongest is some sort of Nurofen and she grimaces.  Nope, Nurofen is a blood thinner.  Why does that matter?  Because tomorrow you’ll need to go to the doctor and they’ll have to treat it.  Whoops, I’ve said too much.  Here’s the stongest codeine-based painkiller I’m legally allowed to sell you, best of luck, go to hospital if you start to get feverish, feel faint or the pain gets so bad you can’t open your mouth or swallow.

Doom.  Dooooooom.

*  And by emergency I mean whenever anything medically ambiguous occurs that you think might require a doctor soonish but probably isn’t bad enough for the emergency room.