One Man Went to Mow.

I have rarely had a ‘family doctor’ and each time I see someone new they expect me to have a long medical history of broken things, things removed, things fixed, and pills to support minor miracles medical science has performed to keep me alive and kicking to date.  I surprise them by giving No answers to All the Above. 

 I’m lucky.

I have had only three minor operations in my life: one to remove a bump that was traditionally belted with the family bible, the second to prevent further unrelated bumps, and was fixed with a rubber band.  The third was to remove a cataract and I was in and out of day surgery so fast it hardly rates a mention.  

 All of these were a long time ago. 

I don’t count the various enterprises of the dental profession who over time have taken out a lease on the digging, drilling and mining of every tooth I possess (or now dispossess). I try to forget those explorations whenever I can.

When my father came to the meal table he came with his box of prescription medication – half a one of the pink tablets, two of the yellow, one white capsule, one light blue, two beige, and a quarter of a green spotty one- OK, I did make up the spotty one.  To be fair, he hated it, but they kept him alive and fit for a long time after radical heart surgery.

I grew up in a household where if you were ill you were expected to grin and bear it. My mother suggested that if you were aching you should bite your lip until it hurt because you can’t feel pain in two places at once. She was a nurse, but I doubt that her philosophy of pain maintenance was known to Hippocrates or was based on any actual science.

But the thing I do suffer from is Hay fever. Currently I am in competition with Rudolph. My red nose could light up a small hamlet.

Wikepedia cleverly tells me that:

  Hay fever isn't caused by hay and does not exhibit symptoms of fever.

  It comes on in pollen season

....and where I live is Pollen Capital of the universe. You can see it in drifts as the trees eject what looks like a shower of sperm for weeks at a time.  It mists over my garden table making a cloth of yellow . It lurks invisibly,  waiting to settle on my hair and clothing when I venture into the garden. It gets up your nose, in your eyes, down you throat…you get the picture. 

Wikepedia also informs that:  It has a range of physical signs such as: folds in the skin below the lower eyelid known as Dennie–Morgan folds, and rings under the eyes. Whoopee, what a relief – I though all that was a symptom of my mature age. By Christmas when the winds die down and the pollen has finished spuming everywhere I will be a raving youthful beauty again. 

This week the attacks have been so bad that I have succumbed to visiting my physician. I have left with the lingering memory of the Doctor telling me I looked awful, and throwing up her hands in despair. Never-the-less I now have a stunning array of nasal spray, eye drops, pills, and directions to stay indoors for the next few days. 

And,  I’ve got steroids. So in addition to having a stunningly youthful face after all this is over, I will have the physique of a toned bodybuilder to go with it. 

Then again, if I am really unlucky I will be able to impersonate Santa  with  oily skin, excess hair growth, and a deepened voice.

I think the sensible thing to do is move to the coast where they don’t mow hay.

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Art Work of the Week

While I have been confined indoors I have been having more fun with Christmas tea cosies. This one  sold at the markets on the weekend.

Christmas Bells