Ellis’ Wintergreen

After lunch on Saturday, when it all started, I watched Murder in the Building very peacefully at home. The cough is mild at first and then insidious. Some horror movies are chilling. I don’t give them too much weight. Then the temperature rises. “How bad is the decline in the ovarian zone this season”, I thought. Age does not forgive.

At night I get ready for bed, fluff out my pillow, open the windows (hotter than the afternoon, which is rare in A Coruña), and start tossing and turning. Can’t sleep. The cough was mild at first and then became more severe. I sat up and poked around for a white handkerchief like La Traviata, ready to languish in my decadent living room, staining it the blood red of consumption, while I drank French champagne until I fell into a final cry of anguish. But there was no French champagne in the house, and there was just a bottle of Piper cider left over from last Christmas under the cupboard, like a Dickensian ghost. I decided to rummage through the medicine cabinet until I found the friendly paracetamol, the Fierabrás ointment we used when the Armed Forces flu meds weren’t available.

Spinning, coughing, burning forehead. The last time I had a fever it was from influenza A, the famous flu that only four freaks have and it made me email all my friends like Kavala in the last scene of Tosca Dorsey said goodbye to life like that. I was sweating like the guy in “Do Your Best” but I, wrong, wrong, blamed the whole thing on menopause.

I slept for an hour and slept very badly. I woke up with a bulging head, a stuffy nose, a Paris Loft cough, watery eyes, and Paris Loft fever, but no Loft or Paris. There the blonde began to wake up and said to herself: This is a waterfall like a great temple. I picked up the Sergas application form and made an appointment to see the doctor. I was lucky enough to find a Tuesday date.

other paracetamol. The fever has subsided a bit. I usually have a body temperature of 35.8 degrees and 37.8 degrees, but I saw that Rubiales was very handsome. I read on Twitter that the new variants of the virus are called Pirola and Eris or something like that. I laugh.

I dragged myself to the clinic, weary, and rummaged through the maze of rooms as the doctor stood in for the vacationer. Now you stop saying who’s the last? Because after you insert the card, they will give you the number that will be displayed on the panel later. Finally it was my turn. I just walked into the office with my mask on and the doctor, a nice lady, sat me down.

what happens? Hear the voice of my dead tenor. “Well, I’ve had a major setback.” Tighten the mask to keep the bug from escaping the side. I didn’t know if Arsenio would have spoken better in the game, so I squeezed my mask like I was an astronaut on an unknown planet.

Go to the nurse right away.

I went to the nurse and she was another very nice lady and when she saw me she was also wearing the beat the virus sign. The nurse took out a very long stick, turned it into a purification lightsaber, inserted it into my sinuses, and twisted it fiercely. Is this the first time? The last one, I think. Once, and that’s all, St. Thomas. positive for coronavirus. You will receive instructions when you get home.

On the way home, the acting doctor called me. The sound of howling. “Oh, they’re going to confine us all again and make masks mandatory!”

Me: Why have people been calling me since 2020? Is this a feeling of déjà vu or a fever thing? “Well, now wearing a mask and isolating yourself in a room, thank God, you show up in the statistics. How many people will go out with (Borrelia) and not go out”.

As I listened to all this, my eyes rolled in their sockets. “By the way, did I go to the doctor for a fever, cough, whatever?” “Well, I’ll prescribe syrup, codeine, and paracetamol.”

(But that’s medicine for the common cold, right? Right?)

“Okay, I’m back at work on Friday, four days lost to COVID.” I went home thinking about all the delirium I’d just been through. The doctor will not take care of you or examine you, he will call you and order you to self-isolate, and two days later the miracle of Pirola de Ellis happened. I went back to work on Friday, as I had magically appeared in the statistics, Saint Roque, the patron saint of the epidemic, cured my cough, lowered my fever, and made me want to drink a glass of ice-cold Star. Moral: Doctors should not be understood, they should be loved.

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