Tuesday night was pretty hellish, with mad, twisted fever nightmares, reminiscent of Walt Disney working hand-in-hand with Clive Barker. And that was just in the period of time I actually could sleep. The next morning was no better, with my temperature climbing rapidly up to 40.3°C, constipation and some uncomfortable swellings in infected areas. Not a rosy day by any means. I was pumping pills, dropping in and out of consciousness (and reality) and generally not a lot of use to anyone all day. At night a decision was taken by my parents. If I wasn’t better in the morning then it was unlikely I was going to be better by Saturday when I was to take my flight back, and so my parents would drive me back to Aldershot.
Thursday morning was a continuation of the previous day. Apart from the fact that preparations began for an early morning departure the next morning.
Friday was a different affair altogether; I felt marginally better, my fever having lessened and everyone was up by five. As the car had been loaded the night before, we were on the road by six and at Calais by eight, just in time to catch a ferry that would whisk us across the channel. When we reached Aldershot Health Centre, we hit the first potential obstacle. Apparently the first appointment available was at five in the evening and it would with a nurse not a doctor. Needless to say, my mum was having none of that. With stubborn tenacity, and an unsubtle veneer of contempt for officiousness, combined with a German determination of wanting something that someone has told you isn’t yours to have, my mother berated and argued with the receptionist until, mysteriously, a last minute vacancy appeared. The nurse took one look and referred me to the doctor. The doctor took one look and referred me to the hospital. The hospital made me wait around for a while and eventually I was tested, poked, scanned, probed and generally made to feel like a slab of meat. At the end of which I was given my prescription and sent on my way again.
Now, you may ask why I was sent to hospital for a flu? That’s because I left something out. If you’re squeamish, look away now. Especially if you’re squeamish and male. Take it from me, a testicular infection is not a pleasant thing. Oops! Now the cat’s out of the bag! (So to speak). Imagine a testicle swelling up to the size of an orange. Then add pain. You get the idea. That’s why the hospital visit, unfortunately, the symptoms are very similar to some more gruesome problems down below and nobody was taking any chances. So there you go. The anti-inflammatory and the antibiotics will take care of it in short order, but it’s still not pleasant.
The squeamish people can come back now…
A side-effect of the whole affair was Penny meeting my parents which, while brief, was a pleasant affair.
Since my parents’ departure, Penny has taken over duty of care, keeping me fed, watered and stuff. It was a bit of a weird week off, but it certainly has it’s perqs…
Tomorrow, the first day of a new job.
technorati tag: health