That little thing that hangs down the back of my throat was crimson red and swollen. It looked sort of like a puffer fish—only down my throat. It was so inflamed, I could hardly swallow water. Forget about chewed up food.
It was time to call the doctor. I hate calling my doctor. No kidding. Actually, I never get to speak to the doctor. No, I have to go through the operator, and then talk to one of the receptionists at the nurses station.
It’s never fun to call them. They all know me by name. How can that be? There’s at least 50,000 patients that go to the clinic. How come all the nurses know my name? I hate that. It makes me feel self-conscious. I hate feeling self-conscious. I mean it.
Anyway, when I talked with one of the receptionist at the nurses station she said, “How can…
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