I don’t go to the doctor unless my mother makes me.
Let’s be clear on this. It’s not that I’m afraid of the doctor. I just need hard evidence that there’s something wrong with me before I feel professional intervention is justified. It’s the only way I can be sure I’m not just being a wimp.
This doesn’t mean I’m stoic about pain or sickness. I’ll whine about it plenty. Well, I’ll whine until Mom says, “Have you taken anything for it?”
So, last week I’m trying to work but I have this mosquito bite (or something) on my finger that’s very distracting. And then it’s very painful. And then it’s very red and puffy. But no way am I going to the doctor just because I have an owie on Mr. Pinky. Pass the ibuprophen and the Neosporin.
Yeah, I also have a hard time admitting I can’t just fix everything myself.
Only it’s like I’m suddening in Zac Snyder’s DC verse, and I’ve got this germ like General Zod, and the Neosporin is like the army tanks, and my white corpuscles are like Superman, and my finger is Metropolis.
And Mom is like, “You need to go to the doctor.”
And I’m like, “Pshaw. I’ll just look up how to treat this at home.”
And WebMD is like, “You have a flesh-eating bacteria and your finger is going to fall off.”
And I’m like, “Hello, doctor’s office? I’d like to make an appointment, please.”
Besides, I couldn’t wait anymore for it to get better on it’s own, because I couldn’t type. Or write. Or sleep. Or do anything but hold my hand up in the air to keep it from throbbing.
So what’s the moral of the story? I really really hate to say it, but…the moral of the story is listen to your mother when she says go to the doctor. Some things aren’t meant to be DIY.