For the past couple of weeks, I’ve had 76 sour trombones messing around in my ears when I swallowed or blew my nose. I called the doctor after the first week and self-diagnosed that I had fluid in my ears. She suggested Sudafed, but to call if I wasn’t better by today.
I called first thing this morning and left a message for the “triage nurse.” It should be noted that in order to do that, I had to hear the “If this is an emergency, hang up and dial 911. . . ” message three times before being allowed to leave the message. In addition, I also sat through the warning about not leaving multiple messages two times.
Just after I left my message and my home phone number, Dearly Beloved reminded me that he was going to be on a conference call in 20 minutes, possibly for two hours or more.
That meant I had to call and press through the three 911 messages again to leave my cellphone number to be attached to the aforementioned message, thus violating the warning not to leave multiple messages.
Five minutes later, our house phone rang and DB ran to answer it. The conversation went like this:
Strange little voice: Grandpa? It’s your grandson.
DB a/k/a Granddad, not Grandpa: Who is this?
SLV: It’s me, your grandson.
DB: Which grandson?
DB: I don’t have a grandson named Michael. You have the wrong number.
At that point, the SLV suddenly morphed into a deep, angry voice and shouted, F–k you, Man! and hung up the phone.
The triage nurse called to ask that I should come at 1:45. I love my doctor and have followed her to three different locations. The first one was in the neighborhood, the second 12 miles out in the suburbs and now it’s in the EpiCentre which is located uptown. If the name sounds familiar, it was the site of much of the activity during the Democratic convention when it was held in Charlotte. It’s three miles and a universe away.
The office is squeezed between a Five Guys hamburger joint and a movie theater, a short walk away from Whiskey River and Howl at the Moon. See it? The small doors behind the trash can?
Inside is interesting, too.
See the light at the end of the hall? The blue door is the doctors’ office, but the light just in front of it is coming from the open door of Five Guy’s kitchen. It is amazing how far the aroma of french fries carries.
Back to the subject at hand, which was the fluid in my ears. . . .
It turned out not to be fluid at all. It was earwax. GROSS! Embarrassing!
It took an hour of two nurses and the doctor dropping anchor in my ear and pumping fluids into my ear canal to loosen the wax enough to get it out. Since it was supposed to be about a ten-minute visit and I was there well over an hour, they will be behind all day because of earwax. I apologized profusely.
The irony of all of this is that now I DO have fluid in my ears. My ears are still whistling and squeaking when I swallow or blow my nose. They said that it may take six weeks for it to drain.
My ears were sore and I was a little tremulous when I left the office. I had an overwhelming urge to walk over to Whiskey River.
Suddenly the location made sense.
In case you ever find yourself here and need a good doctor, just look for the big phallic building. The Epicenter is just in front of it.
You know I can’t make this stuff up.