The vagina business June 29, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
A short history of an illness:
Quite a few weeks ago, I visited a doctor with the suspicion that I had an ear infection. I’m awfully good at self-diagnosis and was, it turns out, spot on. Antibiotics were probably going to be administered, to my delight. I love the thought of getting some antibiotics into my system to flush out whatever random infections are lurking around inside me from my dissolute ways. I hoped I’d get some big, blue tablets. Hard to swallow. Ages’ worth. They’d have me right as rain.
“You’ll need antibiotics,” the doctor confessed apologetically.
“Yippee,” I thought. “Oh,” I said, pretending that was a shame.
“Normally we’d give tablets,” she continued. Normally? My heart (and ear) sank. “Now we think an injection up the jacksy is more effective.” I had my pants down before you could say Mittelohrentzündung.
I wasn’t due my next visit till ages later. In the meantime, my ear continued to give me jip. All this time just to get over a piddly little infection? Again I thought I had spoken too soon about the joys of getting old. I trooped back to the Dr. Sure enough, the jacksy-route antibiotic hadn’t done a thing. I was just as infected as I’d ever been, and the quack and I came to an agreement that we’d dispense with the new and go back to some traditional old oral consumption. “Oh,” I groaned mournfully, for the sake of appearances. “Yes,” euphonised my innards.
Ten flipping days’ worth of drugs. You wouldn’t think your ears could do this to you. Not that I minded, of course, although constraints were put on the daily routine. “Don’t eat this and that. Don’t drink this and that. Avoid the sun. Avoid booze. Avoid this. Avoid that. Avoid the other.” I avoided galore. And consumed galore. I must have been as healthy as a bull, as our friends in Russia like to say.
Trolled back to the quack when my druggy days were done. I don’t know if this was a super bacterium I’d caught, but I had a suspicion all was still not utterly tip-top with the old auricles. The quack had a butcher’s. Her brow furrowed. Things were better, but not quite better enough. I wondered if we were going to have to go further back in medical history to find the ideal solution. But Ear, Nose and Throat woman thought we’d give it one last emergency extension of good old oral drugs and hope for the best. I consented manfully.
Another five days’ worth. This was now weeks of treatment for something wrong with one flipping ear. I had started to consider I might never get better and that antibiotics would become a staple of my diet. Doomed to dodgy ears but destined to be as infection-free as a private hospital ward for the rest of my days. I’d probably live for ever. But be deaf.
And then the queerest thing happened. I started to get a bit of an itch. And nowhere near my ear at all. No. Down below, if ya hear what I’m sayin’. Which you’ve got to admit is queer. I’m sorry to mention genitalia on this humble page but all was not well in the willy department. Its sanctity had been violated and it didn’t look nearly as ordinary as an ordinary willy should. There was a blotch. And it itched like mad.
Another appointment was fixed for yesterday. I dragged myself to medical woman. We said familiar and exasperated hellos. “Well?” she asked. I gestured so-so with a wiggle of the hands. She peered inside me. “Good news.” The bereavement I felt at the loss of my daily chemical intake was only compounded by the thought that I was going to have to come out about the willy saga. But come out I did. For the second time in a surgery that deals with matters of ear, nose and throat, my pants were round my ankles. She prodded around and looked up close. “A reaction to the antibiotics,” she quipped assuredly in what I couldn’t help half-thinking was an attempt to cover her back. “There’s a very good homeopathic treatment and a cream which you smear on for as long as it takes the unsightliness to disappear and then ANOTHER WEEK AFTER THAT, just to be sure. In the meantime, no jiggy jiggy.” I’ll be fit for the clergy after all this asceticism, no doubt. “Oh, and when you get the cream, don’t be surprised that there’s an applicator with it and talk of women here and there in the instructions.”
I trotted round to the secretaries, three of whom made a massive effort not to be the one to have the hard task of handing me the prescription which had fulfilled the much harder task of printing itself out without a hint of complaint. I strode out into the heart of this fine city, resplendent in the 700th day of glorious sunshine in a row, secretly happy at the thought that at least the initial ailment was gone and my body hadn’t given up on me altogether. I flounced into the first chemist’s I found. And handed over my prescription. For vaginal cream.
Look after your health boys and girls. You never know what tricks your body’s going to play on you next.