One Flu Over The Cuckoo's Nest

One Flu Over The Cuckoo's Nest

This morning in the gym, I happened to mention that I had not had a flu shot.

Bellows of aghast and dismay filled the room, as my workout crew squawked and shuddered at my indifference to protecting myself from the H5N1 flu virus that is currently all the rage in Canada.

My good friend, the cardiologist, even called me a "fool" in his most bombastic, paternal tone of voice.

So, given all this hoopla, I decided that I would, in fact, get a flu shot after years of ignoring the tiny prick that apparently has the seminal stuff to save lives.

Here, the flu shot is available almost everywhere. Doctors have it, dentists have it, pharmacies have it, even Walmart and Costco have it. It is so readily available that I suspect even the homeless guy outside the liquor store probably has a supply.

I decided to head to my local pharmacy for a dip and dab of vaccine.

Now, offhand, you would think the process would be an easy ride, but not so. I asked the pharmacist if he had flu-shots available, and yes, he did. However, first the cautionary tale and the paperwork.

"Do you have any allergies?" he asked with something of a furrowed brow.

"No," I suggested blandly.

"You're not allergic to eggs?" he continued.

"Well, not too sure about that, but my doctor says that I'm not," I muttered. "If I am," I continued, "what could happen?"

"Within the first few minutes," he offered in a stern voice, "you will get a rash. That will be followed by a swelling of the tongue and throat, causing you severe respiratory problems. Then, you will likely pass out."

"Pass out? Or pass away?" I returned with some alarm.

"Well," he quickly interjected, "passing away is obviously the worst case scenario. But don't worry, we have an EpiPen here. We would inject you with epinephrine, and then call 9-1-1 for an ambulance to take you to the hospital for further treatment."

My mind rolled over. Ambulance? Hospital? Cripes, I had things to do today.

"How common are such reactions?" I wondered.

"Not at all common," he said in almost a whisper, presumably not to alarm anyone, before adding, "but I will ask you to sit for 10 to 15 minutes after the shot, just to make sure you are not having a reaction."

I was alarmed.

Still, I had come this far, so I adopted my most heroic persona and said, "I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Good," he finished with a kind of affirmation. "I'll just need you to fill out some paperwork."

The paperwork of which he spoke was much like any standard medical form ...

    High Blood Pressure

    Heart Disease

    Diabetes

    Ulcer

    Cataracts

    Varicose Veins

    Hemorrhoids

Well, the usual stuff ... I always check everything, just to be on the safe side.

The difference on this particular flu shot form, however, was that there was also a disclaimer that absolved the shooter from any liability should the shootee suddenly develop life-threatening symptoms of any kind. Immediately below that tidy little bit of legalese, you signed your life away.

By this time, I had had my fill of filling stuff in, and so I just signed and figured we should just get on with it. You would probably never suspect it of me, but I do have a certain fatalistic side, and I figured I'd live or die, but either way I was damn well not going to get the flu.

Once the paperwork was complete, I was shuffled off to sit quietly in a small waiting room, where the pharmacist left me for a minute and then returned with a mottled orange fishing tackle box.

"Really?" I thought to myself. I mean, couldn't he have something a little more professional than a tackle box that unfolded like an accordion to reveal a menagerie of swabs, needles, Ziploc gloves, and assorted other medical paraphernalia. For a brief moment, I felt like the catch-of-the-day.

Now, I am not afraid of needles. In fact, I think I like them just a little too much. So, when the pharmacist went through the drama of holding the needle up to the light and tapping in gently, just like in the movies, I was impressed.

"You do that with a certain flair," I offered, "considering ..."

He looked at me with a curious expression, as if I had somehow insulted him or belittled the moment.

"Just being careful," he snapped.

Careful? Careful? Careful of what? Careful not to inject me with an air bubble that would find its way to my heart and blow a hole in my aorta?

It's odd that just when you think you are in "good hands," you are suddenly struck with the notion that you are really about to be the victim of a weekend fisherman.

Then the moment arrived when he first swabbed my shoulder and stuck that needle all the way down to my ribs.

It didn't hurt much at all. Honestly, just a little jab, a snick, a prickle, a stab ... until, of course, my mind caught wind of what was going on and began to ring the fire alarm.

Involuntarily, I stood up. After all, no matter where you are, when the fire alarm goes off, you are supposed to vacate the building. As I bolted upright, I'm afraid that I sent the more demure pharmacist hurtling across the room. His face went a whiter shade of pale, and he looked at me as if this moment might be the promised end.

I quickly apologised and sat back down, but he was no longer a willing participant in this unfolding one-act play. He exited stage-left, and didn't return for a good 20 minutes with his assistant by his side.

"Any reactions?" he asked in a soft, reassuring voice.

"No," I replied, "everything seems fine."

"Not feeling light-headed, like you're going to faint?"

Well, I always feel light-headed and on the verge of fainting, so I had to do some inner calculations to measure if I felt any more light-headed than usual.

"No, I'm good," I concluded.

"Good," he said with a growing sense of self-assurance. "Please feel free to call me if you do develop any unusual symptoms over the next 12 hours."

My mind went blank.

"What would you call 'unusual'?" I asked. And then for the sake of a little levity, I added, "Do you think I might grow another finger or toe?"

He didn't laugh.

"Any problems, let me know," he said with a tone of voice that obviously was meant to bring down the curtain on this entire escapade and, by way of putting an exclamation mark on the whole procedure, he opened the door for me while offering, "Enjoy the rest of your day."

So off I went, a little unsure if I should be driving with vaccine racing through my body, but here I am, home and chillin', drifting around inside the music of Jimi Hendrix for some odd reason, but still able to write this little piece of triviality for you.

Oh sure, the words are bouncing all over the screen, there's a dull A♭ hum in my head that wasn't there this morning, and I feel a little feverish, but otherwise I'm doing fine.

Tomorrow, I'll probably be in bed with the flu.

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