Yesterday I got bitten by a mosquito around my thigh. I didn’t realize how and when it happened. I only can tell you that its goddamn venom was so hard on me that I got a horrible rash, along with an intolerable itch from the spot of the sting almost up to my groin. I can assure you if you could look at the spot of the sting, you would gasp as if you’ve viewed human’s flesh at its highest vulnerability, has been savagely attacked by new version of Ebola viruses. The thing which truly rubs me in a wrong way through this seemingly simple incident is that, you are so painfully reminded of your vulnerability by one of the most underestimated creatures of the world. Obviously, I had to stop working for a while and my next pay stab will be affected. Moreover, I couldn’t scratch my private areas while I was surrounded by my female coworkers and their sharp eyes.
Now, let alone the excruciating itch and irritation which has been caused by this single mosquito’s bite, I also would like to point at another parallel incident which almost equally tortures me. I understand that it might seem somehow illogical to you, but it is to say that the reaction which my physician has paid to this medical condition was as irritating as the consequence of the sting was. This new physician had been popped up in our nearby walk-in clinic just few months ago, and I already had met him in two or three occasions. Unlike to my former empathic physician, this one seemed excessively ‘cool’. His cold reactions to me and my illnesses have made me gradually to be obsessed with the ways of impressing him by my symptoms. I confess that in the last visit I had let my symptoms to be aggravated to the point that my sore throat had needed a high dosage of antibiotics. But still there was no major reaction or empathy from him. As if you are checked by a medical scanning machine.This time I naively thought that the gross scene of my plundered skin which already had moved everyone to estates of shock and awe; could draw some attentions or revive some feelings and sympathy in him. In fact, in the waiting room I was fantasizing how he unsuccessfully holds himself, to not to be awed at my gross injuries. All I needed was just a big ‘Wow’, or ‘ohhhhh jeezzz’ or any indication of emotional excitement from him. But again, at my highest disappointment, I witnessed that in the most typical and routine way he just made a glimpse of the sores and uttered a bunch of robotic questions.Who the hell he think he is? CSI: Miami’s forensic Doctor? Or an experienced UN’s inspector of genocides? I have made up my mind! Next time, I’m going to mutilate my arm from the elbow and pick the detached limb by the other hand, and then go to his office, throw it at him and yell: take this and stitch it up you bastard…!
