Flat on my back
I stumbled into one of Harare’s 24 hour emergency clinics early on Monday morning. I arrived clutching a hot water bottle, hair like an aged rocker. I looked like a slightly upmarket boozer tramp. I was called through fairly swiftly. Then I waited awhile until a man came in. He looked quite cheery given the early hour. He asked me how I was and I said not very well and he said I can see that. So why ask, dumbnuts, I thought. Anyway he stuck a thermometer in my ear for a quick second and yanked it out again. No cleaning or anything. We’re cool and groovy sharing earwax here in the Sunshine City. Then he took my blood pressure. In the meantime I gave him a long and involved rundown of how I was feeling and what my body was doing (be afraid). And he nodded and grimaced in all the right places. Then he said, the doctor will be with you shortly. I’d been telling my life story to the orderly.
After about ten minutes the doctor came in and we went through the whole splurb again. I got two injections and there was an attempt at a drip which didn’t work out too well. The needle wasn’t in straight apparently. I’d had to give the doctor the low down on my “stool formation” (sadly lacking any hint of shape or form) so I was a bit surprised when he gave me a tiny container in which to place a stool sample. A bit like asking an old age pensioner with bad fitting dentures out to a lunch of biltong. Nevertheless I accepted this mission impossible and went off clutching my small receptacle.
In my hour in the clinic I’d probably spent about ten minutes being attended to by a “medical professional”. All the other time was spent waiting and wondering whether someone had remembered me in my fluffy slippers in cubicle number 1.
The next morning I went off to see a homeopath who spent an hour and a half with me, and who actually spoke. I forgot to mention that the emergency clinic doctor could barely muster a mumble. She heard me out and came up with a suggestion of what I might have – a viral infection – and sent me home with some remedies. The emergency clinic is covered by my medical aid but my homeopath isn’t. Who gave me the best treatment is undisputed.
In the meantime I’d managed the impossible and the unformed stool was captured and secured. I won’t say how. For a couple of days its been smouldering like some form of biological warfare in the corner of my bedroom. Now that I’m feeling better, and with the said stool dating back to Monday, I’m wondering if its beyond testing. So now what? I’m not keen on anyone doing juju on my poo so I’ll have to return it to the loo. A sharp reminder of how levelling it is dealing with your own shit.