“It hurts less if I stab the right cheek.” The door was
locked. I was stuck in a corner. There was absolutely no escaping this one.
She leaned in with a fiercely terrifying smile and pain shot
through my body…

It took a lot to get me there in the first place. It’s not
like I woke up this morning and thought “hey, I should get stabbed”…. actually
I did wake up this morning and decide exactly that… but it took 6 long weeks of
suffering to get to this morning.
I don’t like doctors. I mean they are alright as people
(Some of my favouritest people are doctor people), but their vocation terrifies
me. I tend to see them more as prophets of doom (and please don’t take this
wrong if you are in fact a doctor – or a prophet of doom, who doesn’t like to
be likened to a doctor, for that matter) about to predict my imminent/impeding
end.
The last time I saw a doctor was not because I woke up one
day in the middle of nowhere [Laos], swollen like a balloon unable to breathe
with what I thought might be a bad case of sporadic elephantitus
https://bearfootgypsy.com/wp/2012/03/27/avoiding-death-elephatitus-and-busses-in-that-order/
  …Or because I think I might have broken my foot after jumping off a building in Hong Kong
https://bearfootgypsy.com/wp/2012/07/09/injured-insanities-and-failures/
…But only because I got attacked by a mangey dog and thought I might have rabies;
and I generally prefer not to get rabies and die 
https://bearfootgypsy.com/wp/2012/08/12/becoming-a-vegetarian-the-bottom-of-the-food-chain/
So obviously seeing a doctor (despite being sick for 6 solid weeks) was out of the question, but my
friend Jacqui talked me into seeing a nurse at a clinic and well… yes, she
stabbed me (With a needle not a knife before someone reports her). Sister George locked me in a room and stabbed me. 
And then she told me to go see a doctor.

There’s people out there who can’t afford to eat or sleep or
wear deodorant and here I am, able to afford being stabbed. I am truly fortunate.

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