Quite what the astrology behind this doozie is I don't know, unless it's Mars (male cat) stationed retrograde against natal Moon (Me? But that would be the Sun. ) All I know is it happened on Friday night when I was chasing Big Old Mr. Patches around the apartment trying to give him the last of his week's worth of medication, most of which had ended up on the floor or on me rather than inside him anyway.
He has to sense that I'm unsure of myself, which is putting it mildly, when I'm trying to stick the syringe into the corner of his mouth--he's twice the size of Sweet Pea--and as I was bent double scurrying around the apartment after him holding him half by his collar and half by the scruff of his neck he turned his head and bit me, hard, on the right index finger, causing me to yelp, let go of him immediately and stumble into a doorknob on the newly installed French doors.
My finger hurt so much I wasn't even aware of the black eye till the next morning, when I looked in the mirror while attempting to clean my teeth with my left hand. (Well, with a toothbrush held in my left hand.) The bitten finger was red and swollen, as was my palm between the finger and thumb, and wouldn't straighten like the other nine, but I gallantly (stupidly?) took myself off to rehearsal for the big holiday pageant at the senior center, came straight home and went back to bed, trying to find a comfortable position for my right hand.
If I had what's called a primary care doctor I'd have called first thing on Saturday morning, but me and other forty million uninsured people in this country tend to wait a couple of days on the off-chance whatever it is will go away. By Sunday it was clear even to me that I was now the one needing medication and did what I always do in extremis--called the mother of the child I came here to babysit for 46 years ago, who's an M.D.
When I got her answering machine I resorted to the web and discovered Duane-Reade have walk-in clinics now with doctors on staff. I called back to tell Dr. G not to bother to call me back just as she was looking up my phone number, told her I'd report when back home and took myself off to Duane-Reade on 86th Street, clutching my $10 off coupon that I found online and feeling only slightly pitiful.
The sign there said the clinic was no longer open on Sundays and the nearest doctor-equipped D-R was at 50th and Broadway, and glossing over the details, which were remarkably pleasant, all things considered, by 3:30 pm I was home with my prescription for heavy-duty penicillin which Dr. G confirmed was exactly what she would have prescribed.
On Monday morning, two pills down but still feeling terrible, I took myself off again for rehearsal for the pageant, hoping someone would tell me to go home once I told my tale of woe, but when I finished, the 80-plus-years-old choreographer promptly told me her nephew had died over the weekend. Competition was not mentioned, but no way did my black eye and a swollen finger trump that. The show must go on, and did, at one o'clock, to great applause and appreciation from the audience, and once again I returned home and went to bed.
Today, Tuesday, the penicillin is definitely taking hold. I'm able to type with capital letters, my index finger is the same color as all the others and I can almost straighten it, sausage-like though it still is. Mr. Patches continues to be the big old sweet thing he is when he's not having a syringe poked into his mouth and curls up in bed with me every night, while Sweet Pea does his usual Indian Fakir impression and sleeps on the cold linoleum kitchen floor with his head resting comfortably on the wooden pedestal base of the table.
Is it possible that Mars has been stationed retrograde for a week square Mr. Patches' natal Saturn, with me annoying the hell out of him by attempting to give him medication? Now there's a mystery that will never be revealed, and what's $150 and a black eye every now and again anyway? Time for another pill.
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