I hate doctors, though. No, scratch that. I hate going to doctors. I'm pretty sure every time I go that they are going to take one look in my ear or down my throat and pronounce me dead in six weeks.
It doesn't help that they told me I had cancer once. That incident confirmed my belief that our bodies are wild things.
One time about sixteen years ago, I was volunteering at a not-for-profit fair trade store. I hadn't felt well when I got there, and, as my shift wore on, my abdomen slowly became so tender that I couldn't walk around the store. When the pain got so bad that even bending my body to sit down on a stool made me yelp, the old ladies I volunteered with shoved ten dollars into my hand, helped me slide sideways into the back of a cab, and sent me off to an emergency doctor appointment.
It turned out that I had an infection. A normal person would have had a bladder infection or a uterine infection or a cervical infection or an ovarian infection. Me? I HAD ALL OF THEM. At least, that's what they deduced from all the swollen everything I had going on all up in my lady parts and how they had to shush me when I yelled AYE-EEEEE after they scraped a sample from my cervix with a wooden stick.
Whoever invented that wooden stick hates women.
Anyway, today I have a similar problem if you replace "lady parts" with "everything above my shoulders". I haven't felt well for about a week, and I started to wonder what was up when my tongue felt like I had sprained it a few days ago.
I'll give you a moment to make sprained tongue jokes. Let it all out.
I had to admit that I was probably in need of some doctoring last night when, on top of the pain in my throat, the pain under my tongue was making it hard to talk, and I was pretty sure that there wasn't supposed to be a white growth there, either.
It turns out that I have not only been blessed with what looks like an infected aphthous ulcer under my tongue but what also looks like a good case of tonsillitis and strep throat.
I say "looks like", because after scraping at the disgusting growth under my tongue with a wooden stick — woman-hater! — the doctor said What IS this thing?, as though I had any clue whatsoever. I don't do anything half way.
On the bright side, nobody told me I'd be dead in six weeks.
Assuming it'll do the trick, praise be to doxycycline!