A few years ago, I rescued a tiny, newborn mouse from one of our cats. I don't know why I even bothered. It's not like I didn't know ahead of time what the outcome was going to be. Always, ALWAYS, it's death.
It's some sort of instinct I suppose, and, before I knew it, I was gathering grass and twigs and looking for a shoe box.
After the mouse was ripped from the jaws of death and, then, terrifyingly ensconced in its new habitat, I logged on to do a little research about how to keep the thing alive. Before long, I was sidetracked by warnings about the deadly Hanta virus carried by . . . mice. OMG, WHAT HAD I DONE TO MYSELF?
After a couple days, just like clockwork, the unmistakable symptoms arrived in full force. I woke Tony, the saint, from a sound sleep and asked him to take me to the emergency room. I can only imagine what was going through his head, but he got up and dressed and drove me 30 minutes up the road to our rinky-dink, local hospital.
I was triaged and waited for about three hours before being taken back to see a doctor. Okay, well, so maybe there were more pressing medical emergencies--it wasn't like I was on the brink . . . YET. They did an EKG and some blood work. I was quizzed about my habits.
Finally, the doctor came back around and told me there was nothing wrong with me. Maybe I had a slightly rapid heartbeat, but he felt that could be addressed by cutting out caffeine and quitting smoking. I tried to argue a very special, expensive blood test out of him, but he held firm in his assessment.
I left with mixed feelings. On the one hand, I was relieved that I wasn't going to die right away; on the other, I was sorta hoping I had the virus just to prove him wrong. After all, he was just the teeniest bit smug and condescending.
A year or two later, I noticed one day that the glands in my neck were ever so slightly swollen, and there was a certain puffiness on the left side of my neck down near my collar bone. On to the Internet I went to LEARN MORE.
Well, what I read was not at all good, so I made an appointment with an ear, nose and throat specialist. He recommended that I have an MRI, the results of which they gave me to bring to the doctor on my next appointment. When I got home, I studied the images, gunked them up with my fingerprints, and concluded that I didn't have long to live.
No, I had virtually no experience reading x-rays, and couldn't tell a white area from a gray from a black. How hard could it be, right?
Around the time that all this was going on, a racing pigeon had come to land in our backyard. We fed and watered it, and expected that it would fly away in a few days, after a good rest. Weeks later, it was still there. I named him Pidge, and grew fond of him, seeking him out every day.
Well, when I realized I probably didn't have much time left, what with the swollen glands and all, my first thought was of Pidge. I told Tony that it was my dying wish that Pidge should have a proper coop in which to live, if he was going to be a permanent fixture at our house.
So, Tony got to work and produced a first-rate abode for Pidge, featuring a place for a nest and a perch. He worked on it for days. It's a very fine house, as you can see, with a view of the Chesapeake Bay.
A week or two later, I revisited the doctor, who told me that everything looked great on the MRI. I pointed out my areas of concern on the images, thinking that he must have overlooked something ('cause, you know, he's only had, like, three times the education I have, while I've logged countless hours on the Internet), and was given plausible explanations for each. The puffiness near my collar bone? Fat. Neck fat.
Shortly thereafter, Pidge disappeared. He never did move into his new house; actually, it probably frightened him away.
And my long-suffering husband has not divorced me.
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