but you can pick your patient’s nose



Mucus. As the nasal speculum illuminated the dark passage in front of me, its ability to magnify the most private recesses of human dignity prophesied a secret that none of us are willing to publicly acknowledge: Snot.

The scope of the otolaryngologist had saved her mucous membranes, though her mother told a different story.

As I watched the thin stream of yellow goo ooze out of her nose, I saw the silhouettes of her entire family, standing spinelessly in cowering shame amidst the mountains of vitamins that would have been her life. Instead of the steep drop down the esophagus into the acid lake of her stomach, a coughing fit had sent the pill on a riotous ride up into her nasal passages.

The pill had lied. There she was in the exam room, crimson with embarassment, her mother laughing at her daughters misfortune.

I buried the vitamin we had extracted from her nose in my backyard the next day, underneath the sycamore tree. “Your lies die here,” I thought, as I flushed my ‘Megawoman with Lycopene’ down the toilet, spritzing the WC with lavender air freshening scent as I left the room and closed the door behind me.

If you think this post is a little wacky, read Victor Van Hee’s comment to my “Speedy Gonzolas” post from a few days ago. Then laugh. Then leave a comment.

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