The Crud

Ok so I’m sick….I mean really sick. I feel like crap and all I want to do is sleep….hmmm. Ok so that’s the way I feel every day but now I have a sore throat and a cough. I went to the TMC (Troop Medical Clinic) and waited an hour just to hear the doc tell me that I had the “Middle East Crud”. What he really meant was:
“I’m only pretending to care because the military paid for my medical school, I don’t know what’s wrong with you so here’s some Motrin and coughdrops, piss off.” I mean I GUESS it’s possible to be sick and not have any real option other than to wait to die, but way back when I was a civilian I don’t ever remember going to a doctor who told me “Eh, there’s nothing I can do for you, go sweat it out”. Maybe I was just imagining it, (you know grass is greener syndrome), but I seem to remember a time when you were actually given medication and it seemed to work. I know what my problem is; I just need a few days to rest. In a normal world this would be an option, however in the military calling in sick is an urban legend of the old days when people were treated like adults and coming into work piss drunk was the only way to start your morning off right. Instead you first have to drag your pukey, sweaty, diarrhea ravaged body screaming from the toilet to work, to get a sick call slip signed by someone quite possibly that you outrank. Then, drag your dead lifeless body to the TMC itself to wait behind about a gazillion privates who are only there to get out of PT, only to be told what you already know is wrong with you. But still you rot there, for hours stomach rumbling in protest waiting to be seen. I’m convinced that they have designed the sick-call system so no one above SPC would possibly attempt to use it. I have a lifetime supply of motrin thanks multiple worthless trips to the TMC in hopes that one might result in being given quarters so I can go home to do the one thing that might actually make me better…sleep. Back when I was in highschool I went to private catholic school and our nurses in the clinic were nuns, who seemed to believe there wasn’t anything that couldn’t be cured by gargling saltwater and eating soda crackers. Got cramps, here have some soda crackers…Broken wrist…have some crackers…hemorrhoids…have a cracker…in the military it’s motrin. You could have diarrhea and a yeast infection and no matter what else they might prescribe, you can guarantee there’s some motrin in there somewhere. They are like the magic beans jack sold his cow for; maybe if I bury all that motrin it will grow me a beanstalk out of this place. So the incentive to go to the TMC is very low since the likelihood of being sent back to work with your magic beans measures a “sure as sh*t” on the richter scale. Then all the work that you missed from spending the first half of the morning in the TMC, is still there to greet you when you walk in. I hide my mechanical pencils from myself, afraid one day I might actually use them… “Oh, geez LT Blondie stabbed her eyeballs out, better get the Extra Strength motrin”. It’s a great day in the military, all this and a paycheck too! J