To recap –
Rod, the rogue poison ivy transplanter, had just returned home to find my derriere covered in a rash. Straining for a looksie, I fell into the tub.
Do not ever fall into a tub. It hurts, a lot. I squished my nose and whacked my arm against the tub side. Lots of unmentionable words brought Rod rushing into the bathroom which was a tight fit being a seven by seven-foot square.
“Are you okay?”
Why do men ask these questions?
“I think I broke my arm,” I said.
“Your nose doesn’t look so good either,” he said, the soul of comfort.
With some wrenching on the good arm to get me out of the tub, a few shoulder circles of the bad arm, and an ice pack to my nose, we discussed what could have happened to my butt.
“It looks all inflamed,” he said.
Why do men state the obvious?
“You think the rash has something to do with that?”
He looked doubtful but neither of us could figure out what had happened.
“You should go to the doctor,” he said.
“Bring me bourbon,” I replied. It couldn’t hurt, may even be medicinal.
The itching was worse the next day, and I did go to the doctor. When I went to drop my pants, the doc needed a look, he shook his head.
“You should put down a blanket before you have sex in the open.”
“Huh?” I asked, squirming.
“I need another opinion,” he said and quickly left the room.
It was quiet, without dogs, cats, or people. I may have dozed off. Until. Until I heard a giggle.
“Definitely poison ivy,” said a voice not my doctor’s.
I rolled over in the direction of the sound. In the doorway stood a bunch of people, most in white coats, but the owner of the voice was wearing overalls. Like plumber overalls. I hissed, raising an eyebrow. My blood pressure surpassed measurement.
“Get out, unless you are my doctor,” I screamed at the group. General milling around by the group, a surge towards the door which resulted in what looked like a rugby scrum. I screamed again, “Lawsuit.” People left, single file.
My doctor a-hemmed, and produced a needle. “I have a steroid injection for you.” I snarled. He turned a whiter shade of pale. “Nurse will administer.” He laid the needle on a sterile dressing and left the room. An unsuspecting nurse came into the room to see me, pant-less and holding that needle like a long-lost family member of Norman Bates.
“I’m here to… “ she stopped. Held up her hands.
“Prove you’re a nurse,” I said.
So, the story continues…
(Image by Pexels.com)
Please tell me this is a true story! I’m in stitches!
It is very true! But the story continues!