Had I not been so overworked these last couple of days, I would have apprised the blogosphere of my newly developed condition. It came to my attention early Tuesday morning that my tongue was…acting up.
Ever since that fateful day, when I found my rogue tongue lodged in my throat, strategically restricting my oxygen supply, I knew I was destined to die. In my sleep. From suffocation. By my tongue.
It’s like that bastard can’t accept the loss of its good friend, the tonsils, and is going to take it upon itself to fill the void, and kill me in the process, if necessary.
Every time I turn my head, I find that damn tongue waded up in the back of my throat, sitting there like a pouting child. I’ve spent the last two nights fighting off sleep, after twelve hour work days, because I’m terrified that fucker will slip into my throat the second I dose off.
I’ve been conflicted on whether or not to mention this phenomena of the animated tongue to my doctor. Rey advised against it, so as not to reveal myself as the crazy that I am. But this afternoon, when that white coat cornered me in that cold, little hospital room and asked me “how I was doing?” with those all knowing eyes, I cracked. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. That tongue came alive, and I spilled it, I told him everything.
His response? “Normal.”
And when I carried on, like the lunatic that I am, about my newly developed sore throat, that was silently infiltrating my kidneys and killing me, he suggested, “a refill of the pain medication.” I nearly fell out of my chair.
The tongue was all mine as I spattered and stuttered about what a great suggestion that was. And as the white coat left the room to fetch his pen, it hit me, that unruly tongue was on my side, it was all a ploy for more drugs.
And tonight, as I sit here next to my 400 mg of liquid bliss, I introduce to you a body in harmony.
Ever since that fateful day, when I found my rogue tongue lodged in my throat, strategically restricting my oxygen supply, I knew I was destined to die. In my sleep. From suffocation. By my tongue.
It’s like that bastard can’t accept the loss of its good friend, the tonsils, and is going to take it upon itself to fill the void, and kill me in the process, if necessary.
Every time I turn my head, I find that damn tongue waded up in the back of my throat, sitting there like a pouting child. I’ve spent the last two nights fighting off sleep, after twelve hour work days, because I’m terrified that fucker will slip into my throat the second I dose off.
I’ve been conflicted on whether or not to mention this phenomena of the animated tongue to my doctor. Rey advised against it, so as not to reveal myself as the crazy that I am. But this afternoon, when that white coat cornered me in that cold, little hospital room and asked me “how I was doing?” with those all knowing eyes, I cracked. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. That tongue came alive, and I spilled it, I told him everything.
His response? “Normal.”
And when I carried on, like the lunatic that I am, about my newly developed sore throat, that was silently infiltrating my kidneys and killing me, he suggested, “a refill of the pain medication.” I nearly fell out of my chair.
The tongue was all mine as I spattered and stuttered about what a great suggestion that was. And as the white coat left the room to fetch his pen, it hit me, that unruly tongue was on my side, it was all a ploy for more drugs.
And tonight, as I sit here next to my 400 mg of liquid bliss, I introduce to you a body in harmony.
2 comments:
Your doctor really asked “how I was doing?” I think it's time for a new doc.
Good eye, Sean. I guess that's how you know I got the good stuff...
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