“It hurts less if I stab the right cheek.” The door was locked. I was stuck in a corner. There was absolutely no escaping this one.
She leaned in with a fiercely terrifying smile and pain shot through my body…
It took a lot to get me there in the first place. It’s not like I woke up this morning and thought “hey, I should get stabbed”…. actually I did wake up this morning and decide exactly that… but it took 6 long weeks of suffering to get to this morning.
I don’t like doctors. I mean they are alright as people (Some of my favouritest people are doctor people), but their vocation terrifies me. I tend to see them more as prophets of doom (and please don’t take this wrong if you are in fact a doctor – or a prophet of doom, who doesn’t like to be likened to a doctor, for that matter) about to predict my imminent/impeding end.
The last time I saw a doctor was not because I woke up one day in the middle of nowhere [Laos], swollen like a balloon unable to breathe with what I thought might be a bad case of sporadic elephantitus
...Or because I think I might have broken my foot after jumping off a building in Hong Kong
...But only because I got attacked by a mangey dog and thought I might have rabies; and I generally prefer not to get rabies and die
So obviously seeing a doctor (despite being sick for 6 solid weeks) was out of the question, but my friend Jacqui talked me into seeing a nurse at a clinic and well… yes, she stabbed me (With a needle not a knife before someone reports her). Sister George locked me in a room and stabbed me.
And then she told me to go see a doctor.
There’s people out there who can’t afford to eat or sleep or wear deodorant and here I am, able to afford being stabbed. I am truly fortunate.