Congratulations, you’re not pregnant

By Brayton Cameron

As I sit here typing this, I must admit to being sick. Not sick in the sense one would normally expect from me – that is, being disgusted by some form of humanity. Rather, I’m sick in the traditional medical sense. I have a fever, my chest feels as though someone is trying to claw out of it and I’m coughing up things that look like alien tissue samples from a science fiction film. To quote Paul Barman, “I’m iller than The Iliad,” only this time it’s meant in a bad way.

I didn’t get much sleep last night as my symptoms seemed to be worsened by laying down. But rather than waste my time feeling sorry for myself, I watched some “X-Files.” Perhaps it was my delusions, or perhaps it was the nurturing sound of her voice, but either way it was nice to have Dana Scully, M.D. there to keep me company. I suppose it is at this point which I confess to my unhealthy adoration of Gillian Anderson, and her gun wielding FBI agent character. It was a comfort knowing a doctor was only 10 feet away, inside a box. She rarely did any sort of healing on the show, but it was good knowing she could do the autopsy.

Regardless, I eventually fell asleep for a few hours and in the morning decided to call Health Services for an appointment. At 9 a.m. my call was answered and a dialogue begun. I told the person who answered the phone I was pretty sure I was dying, which she denied. I find I often have to overexaggerate my symptoms to win over the person on the other line, but perhaps claiming I was dying was going a bit far. I backed off and claimed I was having trouble with my lungs.

“Are you coughing?” she asked. “Yes, and I think there is blood involved,” I responded. This was the truth seeing as I’m a living being and blood was involved in the sense that I need it pumping through my system to remain a living being. But was there blood involved with the coughing? Not so much.

Having gotten through the initial interview, I was asked to come in for an appointment at 10 a.m. Rather than be the smelly guy in the waiting room, I decided to shower, which later I would regret. Remember, I am ill. Even if I exaggerated my symptoms for the person on the phone, I’m still sick, so running for the bus is difficult. This, unfortunately, is what happened on my way there. Eventually I made it to Health Services and was checked out. At this point they determined I did not have pneumonia, bronchitis or a urinary infection. Why my urine was linked to why I was coughing is beyond me, but there you have it.

The doctor prescribed Zithromax, an antibiotic, for the possibility of strep throat or a viral infection. I don’t know who names the drugs I take, but Zithromax, or the Z-Pak, sounds more like a Japanese superhero that would team up with Ultra Man to fight injustice in Tokyo. Of course the Z-Pak is right up there with the Power Rangers or VR Troopers for a group of people teaming up with Ultra Man to fight injustice. Instead of injustice, they’re fighting pathogens in my body.

I also was given some ibuprofen to help with my fever. The odd part about it was I was given a frozen bottle of water to take the pill with. I stood there with my hand over the top of the water bottle, waiting for it to thaw so I could take the pill given to me. Eventually the nurse returned to the room and I explained my problem, which got a laugh and was sent home. It is my hope my test results come back negative and I won’t be pregnant – again.

Views expressed in this humor column do not necessarily reflect the Northern Star or its staff. Send comments to [email protected].