Today I went to the urgent care clinic. I had been feeling nauseous and headachy on and off since the Carbon Monoxide Incident, so I went to visit those who wear white coats and stethoscopes. I hadn’t done any form of exercise lately, so I decided that I would go to the doctor after Zumba. After forty minutes my stomach protested my decision to jump, lunge, and generally move in ways that caused discomfort, so I left before the class was done. I had to do some in depth thinking about which medical facility to visit. I considered trying to get an appointment with a regular doctor at the clinic, but they don’t believe in prompt scheduling so I probably couldn’t get in for two weeks. That left the hospital and the urgent care clinic. I swore after The Great Plague of 2011 that I was not going back to the urgent care clinic (something about being told that a heart rate of 134 was “nothing to worry about” didn’t really sit right with me), but I decided it would be the best place to go today. The hospital was ruled out because even though I visited twice during The Great Plague, I’m not entirely sure how to get there.

I filled out the required paperwork at the UCC (see that? I’m a Army wife throwing around acronyms!!) then sat down to wait. And wait. And wait some more. I don’t think the powers that be understand the full meaning of the word URGENT. My fellow waiting room companions were a woman with a horrendous cold, a boy with an infected hand, and a soldier waiting to get a rabies shot. I don’t think his companion was thrilled with the wait because he suggested that the nurse throw the needle like a football over the counter, across the waiting room, and into the man so they could leave. That would have been much more entertaining than the soap opera on the tv.

Finally they called me back and subjected me to a question I find most difficult to answer: are you pregnant or planning on becoming pregnant? What exactly is their definition of “planning on”? Do I plan on producing a small person sometime within the next five years? Yes. Within the next month? No. Welcome to my brain. I was told that I do not have CO2 poisoning. I simply have a some form of virus and was prescribed an anti-nausea medication.  

You know what I had to do after leaving that doctor? Call my oral surgeon to ask if I could take the medicine because I’m having my wisdom teeth removed on Monday and was told not to take certain prescriptions. My life is full of doctors and medical questions! The nurse at the oral surgeon’s office and I had this delightful conversation:
Me: It’s spelled Z-O-F-R-A-N
Her: G as in girl, O…
Me: Z as in zoo, O, F
Her: Z as in zoo, O, S as in Sam
Me: Z-O-F as in Fran
Her: Z-O-F-what’s the next letter?
Me: R. Then A and N
Her: Z-O-F-R-A-what did you say?
Me: N as in night. Night as in N, not knight as in K.

Here’s hoping for less confusion when four teeth are removed from my mouth.