Diagnosis: Crud - by Douglas

Yesterday I was officially diagnosed by a doctor as having “the crud.” Sorry, “viral crud.” A quick search for "crud" on WebMD turns up seven links:

1) Chantix: New hope for adults with asthma
2) Pinkeye and Other Mysteries of Eye Goop Revealed!
3) To-Do List: Brush Teeth! Floss! Scrub Lids!
4) Contact Lens Solution May Be Source of Fungal Infections
5) Should Homeschooling be Illegal?
6) Ear Infections can easily be misdiagnosed
7) Cleanliness and asthma

Let’s see…I don’t have asthma, and based on my symptoms I’m ruling out ear infection. Scrubbing my lids? I don’t care if they’re talking about eyelids or trash can lids – ain’t gonna happen. I don’t wear contact lenses and my feelings about homeschooling do not lean towards the litigious. OK then, that leaves eye goop. Now that’s a diagnosis I can get my hands around! “Sorry I’m late for work. Eye goop.” “Not tonight honey, I’ve got eye goop.” “Sure I’d love to help you move but, you know, eye goop.” But my eyes were actually goop-free so WebMD clearly needs to update its crud content.

I should back up a little. I went to one of those Doc-In-A-Box places because my personal doctor has appointments scheduled through the World Series due to the onslaught of this so-called crud. There’s some boy in a bubble about forty miles south of here and he is the only one in the state without my exact symptoms of sore throat, congestion, sneezing, and cough. Course, he has bubble rash so it kinda evens out. Anyway, medically speaking, things are a bit backed up right now. It only took me about three hours to go from walking into the box-of-the-doc to walking out, so I consider that a mild success.

There was a prettyish young lady in the waiting room wearing shorts that in the summer would border on scandalous, but in the winter with a hacking cough, were just plain stupid. I wanted to slap her in the head but she was surrounded by two men who were deeply interested in hearing about her life story and specifically what led up to her being in that waiting room flaunting a large percentage of her thighs at them. Maybe they were planning to repeat these steps in hopes of getting the same scantily-clad results. I now know that she plays golf at a local university, that she has a tournament this weekend but she just can’t fly with this congestion, that during the summer she spends all day at the golf course and just has to tell her girlfriends that she is unavailable before, like, six o’clock, and that she is "super happy" that Tiger is back on the tour. Million dollar idea - soundproof waiting rooms.

Across from me sat a woman whose perm would have won the Worst Hair Award even if the contest were held at the Okeefenokee Correctional Institute for Women. It was thin and straight for about six inches, then poofed out into loops that would have given Sidewinder snakes a touch of vertigo. She was Rubenesque and homely and with no trace of invitation to conversation - but squeezing out from under her Members Only jacket sleeves were two horribly swollen and purple wrists. Now this was a woman with a story. But she busted me checking out those big, tender mounds of wristflesh and shot me a, “My eyes are up HERE!” look, so her story will remain unheard by anyone other than the doctor. Sigh, the moments we lose...

Everyone in the waiting room yesterday had a name that, when mumbled by the low-talking man-nurse, sounded remarkably like “Dyer.” “Mister Pryor,” he’d utter softly and I’d begin to rise from my seat only to be shot down by the person whose name was actually called. “Miss Bryan,” he’d tease again. “Mister Dyson.” Oh, come on, man! When he finally said "Mr. Dryer," I decided that would be me, no matter who else made their way towards the door.

OK, so short story long, I’ve got the crud, the doctor explained while making air quoties. It’s essentially the flu without the fever and body aches. He said there were many treatments but the quickest involved me dropping my pants and feeling a little prick. I don't care what he meant, I complied like Lance Bass at a Hairspray audition. A few hours later and I am immensely better. I've spent a good deal of my post-pubescent life trying to convince others that a little prick would be a great idea. It's just nice to finally have proof.
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