Doctor knows best
You can’t take every cough to a doctor, but you can take ...”
Who remembers these words in an advertisement for a throat syrup filling the airwaves last century?
A pal of yesteryear reminded me of it when told of my Heidi’s pneumonia.
By implication, was he suggesting she go it alone without the help of a medico?
Anyway, it was too late, as she was already swallowing a load of pills and cough syrup, enough to fill two wheelbarrows.
But it nevertheless got me thinking about one element advised by the doctor we hadn’t as yet pursued: physiotherapy.
Evidently, the only way to rid the lungs of poisonous pus caused by fungi, bacteria and viruses is to vigorously massage both chest and back. Doc insisted we book a physiotherapist.
Heidi wouldn’t have it, jocularly telling the doctor her hubby (yours truly) would look after her. But when I suggested it was time to push out the bad water, she refused point blank.
No amount of pleading, cajoling, even threatening, would she lie down for me to wax physio. See, she doesn’t lie down during waking hours, despite the affliction.
She is known to be the proverbial “Van Helsdingen” who, when lightning strikes, she strikes back.
So it would have to be at bedtime when she’s prone and slumbering. Wrong. She remains wide awake – until I creep in behind her.
Plan B is called for. My chance comes one night while she’s brushing her teeth (with her nighty top riding around her neck).
Her half-naked back beckons. I stalk her from behind with fingers dripping with Vicks.
At that moment, she espies me in the mirror and before I could transfer the vaporous goo, she turns screaming: “No, no, you don’t.”
The toothbrush she is still brandishing strikes my right earhole, leaving blood droplets.
Seeing my injury, her demeanour changes to one of sympathy, and she allows me to finish the job – front and back.
A fellow journo suggested I should’ve attacked while she was rinsing her mouth.
Thus occupied, he theorised, she would not have spotted me. Really? Bad idea. She would’ve turned on contact, leaving me with an eyeful of mouthwash.
Moral of the story? Take the cough to the doctor – and do as he says.
Cliff Buchler
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