Bitch on the Blog

April 6, 2012

Trust me – I am not a doctor

Filed under: Health — bitchontheblog @ 17:11
Tags: ,

The Angel who is so healthy that anything untoward will send him straight to Google and prepare his deathbed asked for a second opinion (mine). I prodded (for about five seconds): “You’ll be fine.”

“Really, Mama? Fine? What’s the alternative?”




  1. Very perceptive, Angel. Fine covers a great deal of territory. Me thinks a third opinion is in order…

    Comment by Lorna's Voice — April 6, 2012 @ 18:03 | Reply

  2. having problems leaving comments again! bloody internet

    Comment by finlaygray — April 6, 2012 @ 20:28 | Reply

  3. Well if he doesn’t trust your expertise, we can always send over a group of old Italian gypsy women to perform the test for “mal occhio” – you know, the evil eye.

    You’ll need two small soup dishes, one with water and ground oregano leaves lightly sprinkled evenly over the water, and another dish with some olive oil. One of the gypsy women (usually the oldest) will take Angel’s hand and finger to dip into the olive oil and guide it over to the other dish with the water and oregano leaves – sort of like working a divining rod. Then she’ll let one drop of oil fall into the dish. Repeat three times. Now all the gypsy women will look at the pattern created by the oil drops argue among themselves about what it all means. No matter. It’s never good. Lastly, they will then dip Angel’s fingers in the oil drops and smear a sign of the cross on his forehead and cheeks, while they whisper something unintelligible and maybe tell him to wear a necklace with a garlic clove or two.

    I don’t know if such remedy works on the spirits, but it usually scares the shit out of the sick person, and all of a sudden they begin to feel better. [you know I want to insert a smilie – it’s killing me…]

    Or, maybe as Lorna suggest, you may need a third opinion – one that does NOT involve Google.

    Comment by Phil — April 7, 2012 @ 13:11 | Reply

    • Not only does the Angel avoid doctors like the plague he trusts his mother implicitly. And this is where trouble brews in paradise. Stuff all suggestions of camomile tea, hot lemon and honey.

      Your suggestion does appeal to me. Lotions, potions, olive oil and ritual. It’ll be wasted on the Angel. He wants solutions – fast. Which is why I sometimes despair when he calls me “vague”. What does he mean “vague”? He won’t like the brutal truth and since I am fiercely protective of him I don’t want to give it to him. Talk about being in a double bind. Oh, Phil, the exchanges we sometimes have are – according to him – something out of a comedy. Particularly first thing in the morning. Impossible to please, easy to annoy. He says something, I reply as vaguely diplomatic as possible (to hold the peace). Like a sniffer dog he smells a rat. So I do a U turn only to be told that I am ridiculously transparent. By way of example, remember he’s got very long hair: When he observes that this particular moment it’s not as good as it could be my heart sinks. If I assure him it’s fine he accuses me of humouring him and if I agree it’s worse.

      Offers of help, hints at how best to deal with a bad hair day treated with derision. I hate early mornings. The other day I told him it’s in the genes: Before ten in the morning he is just like his maternal grandfather. Which prompted him to laugh. Why? What’s funny about that?

      How I shall miss all this one day.


      Comment by bitchontheblog — April 7, 2012 @ 18:29 | Reply

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