I HAVE A THING ON MY EYE.
I always wanted to go out in a blaze of guns, or even hurtling off a cliff in a convertible, holding hands with a good but mostly platonic female friend. Mostly.
Not from an eye bump. I’m scared . Scared and without medical assistance .
For all the chance I have of getting help, I may as well go live in a ditch in the Sudan or something. Not to pick on the Sudan…I’m just reaching for a place where I feel I could not get medical attention easily, and they fit the bill. Unless they have a really friendly universal health policy of which I am unaware. And I imagine the desert conditions make the ditches drier and less disgusting than here, not quite so squelchy and full of wet filth. Hot and parched for sure, but that’s not what I am looking for.
Or , OR, one of my many doctor friends* could hook me up with a decent family physician. Could pull one of their widely lauded connections and help a lumpy-eyed sister out. Boy, it’s times like these when you really find you who your friends are. (I again refer you to the *)
Because, as it turns out, unless you are planning to have a baby, or already have one, getting a family doctor in Nova Scotia has become nigh on impossible. Well, OK, not nigh on, but if you want one within easy walking distance of your home/work – and that just makes me environmentally friendly – then yes, nigh on. And perhaps that makes me appear a bit lazy, but hands up ladies of Halifax who would like to enhance the experience of a pap test with a Metro Transit appetizer and night cap surrounding it. I thought not.
My options are limited here:
1. Have a baby. In High School, and again every year since, I was voted “Most Likely to Eat Her Own Young” so let’s drop that option.
2. Pretend to have a baby. Due to the conditions of #1, no one is willing to loan me a baby. So I would have to either build a baby, or pretend my baby was busy studying for its SATs and never available for a trip to the doctor’s office. In either scenario, I see the police getting involved – social services at a minimum. Due to an impending court-related issue that I am not willing to discuss here, I would like to avoid that.
3. Pretend that I want to have a baby. Now this one I think I could probably manage. That is, until the point at which I forget about the ruse which brought me to the waiting room, and I politely ask the lady next to me with the squalling red-faced bundle if she wouldn’t mind sedating it, or possibly parking it outside for a bit. I really doubt that I would do that, but some friends who have accompanied me to restaurants where children were present have assured me that I would. That I have.
There you have it. It would appear that I am SOL unless some kindly physician will speak to another physician friend, possibly using the code words “Eeyore” and “Tijuana” to grease this transaction, and help me out.
And why is the situation here in Nova Scotia so dire? It all comes down to money. Filthy lucre. Greed. This does not surprise me as I have always maintained that babies are a greedy bunch – it’s all the practice at the teat, you see.
So, to my will and testament. I leave zip to any of you. But if I die from this eye-lump (and I fully expect to expire ANY MINUTE NOW) I will blame the babies. And I will haunt them. Every single one of them. I realise that will keep my afterlife packed with lists of new arrivals, but I think if I move on to a new baby after, say, a day or three, then I can manage it. And I may revisit this policy in a month or two, if it turns out that newborns are unaffected by haunting.
I’ll come back and make them wet the bed unexpectedly when they are 17 or something.
That is my Last Will and Testament.
*I am really bandying the word ‘friend’ about like I invented it here.