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Reflections on a Munchausen’s by Proxy Childhood, Part 3
My senior year of high school I developed a throat infection. It was hard to tell, because it made my head ache (but so did the lights in the classrooms) and my stomach ache (but so did being a bottomless pit of hunger — I grew three inches between September and May that year) and everything I ate made me sick. Eventually I began to run a fever so it was decided I needed a doctor and some good drugs.
(I never noted here: NancyJo loved prescription drugs and abused them willfully and with apparent joy. I used to say if I wanted her to sew a button on my shirt, I had to tell her what I was handing her first or she’d swallow it in case it was a pill. She thought that was hilarious.
I wasn’t joking.)
This time I went to see Dr. H, the family doctor, rather than the vile pediatrician. NancyJo for reasons I cannot remember went with me. I know she was my ride and I know she was my “health insurance” but I can’t remember why she was there in the room.
All the way to the medical building she chattered about how wonderful Dr. H was, what an “excellent diagnostician.” She said that repeatedly. “Excellent diagnostician.” The words clearly made her happy. They sounded so medical. So official.
