Fahrenheit 451

Well, it’s not that bad quite yet, but for the first time in twelve years, Dixichick actually has a fever. This is such a rare occasion, I almost feel that a call to the local news station would be in order.

I had a sore throat yesterday, but assumed that it would, as usual, just go away by itself. So I drove to work anyway. I know, I know, it’s summer, but I had to go to a meeting where we bounced around some really cool ideas about student-organized political broadcasts. However, as I was driving back from work yesterday, I could feel myself getting woozier by the mile. By the time I got home, my head felt like a balloon, and I was driving in this hot-cold fog, which wasn’t all unpleasant, albeit probably not very safe. So even though I had all these great ideas for my blog, I was pretty much forced to take to bed right when I walked in the door. Now I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t take this opportunity to carry out some cross-cultural comparisons.

It started when my husband insisted on taking my temperature. The last time I took my temperature was around twelve years ago, and at that time all I owned was a Centigrade thermometer. Well, that thermometer was nowhere to be found, so I had to resort to using an American one. Even though I’m totally used to thinking in Fahrenheit, when I saw that I had a fever of 101, I couldn’t help but feel a whole lot hotter than I already did. When I that was only 38.3C, I, fortunately, felt a little less concerned. You have to admit that anything over 100 just sounds a whole lot scarier than something in the 30s. Anytime I hear 100 degrees, I think of boiling water, eggs, and steam, things that I would rather not associate with my own body.

Because my tonsils looked a little freaky (I will spare you all the details), the love of my life also suggested I make a doctor’s appointment. When I called the doctor’s office and was told the first available opening was Thursday morning, I couldn’t help but reminisce about European family doctors. Not that their offices are any more efficient, but they used to make house calls. The doctors were, at least in my mind, always older gentlemen carrying a battered leather briefcase. They would come sit on the edge of your bed, look in your mouth once, feel your forehead, and know exactly what was wrong right away. No need for complicated tests, a nurse to weigh you and take your blood pressure, and a long questionnaire, just plain and simple common sense. My only other option here is to go the ER or an emergency care facility. Now call me Dutch or Calvinist or claim that I’m channeling my mother’s spirit, but since I honestly don’t think that’s necessary either.

One distinct advantage of being sick in the US is the enormous array of the over the counter medications. Last night I slept like a baby after I took a Tylenol PM, and I have enough meds to make it through the day. When I was younger, I remember that all I would get was an aspirin, and besides getting antibiotics from a doctor, that was it. There were no over the counter allergy medication, no cold medicine (except for a horrible syrup), no headache medicine, nothing. Not to say that I’m all about just taking one pill after another, but it’s nice to know it’s there if you need it. And it sure helped me write my blog today, although I do need to lie down right now:)