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1987
Henry threw open Shawn’s door to see a small lump beneath the bed covers. “Get up, Shawn! I want you ready for school and downstairs in ten minutes.”
When the lump didn’t move, Henry walked into his son’s room and ripped off the covers. Henry had to stop himself from laughing as he was presented with Shawn’s butt sticking up in the air – he never understood how the kid slept that way, but it was something he had always done. Henry suppressed the desire to laugh in favor of the need for parenting. “I said now, Shawn.”
Shawn groaned and mumbled into the mattress, “I don’t feel good.”
“What is it this week, Shawn?”
“My throat hurts and I think I have a temperature.”
“Let’s hope it isn’t 140 degrees like it was last week when you said you didn’t feel well. Here’s a quick tip, kid: never use a light bulb that’s been on for hours to heat up a thermometer. Try using a light bulb that’s only been on for one or two minutes tops – that will put your ‘temperature’ at a balmy 100 degrees. But don’t worry; I’ll still know you’re not telling the truth.”
“I’m not lying.” Shawn tucked his legs beneath him to shield himself from the cold air attacking him after Henry viciously stole all of his warm blankets. Henry leaned over and gently rested his hand on the back of his son’s neck before sliding it beneath the collar of his A-Team pajamas and down his back. No doubt about it, the kid felt hot.
He walked to the doorway and yelled down the hallway, “Maddie, come here for a minute.”
*****************
By dinnertime, Shawn was curled up on the sofa, all of his blankets safely returned to him. As he watched a repeat of Punky Brewster and downed his third bowl of ice cream, he could hear his parents talking as they prepared dinner in the kitchen. He would have basked in the glory of being allowed to eat ice cream for dinner, but contrary to his father’s initial belief, he wasn’t lying when he said he wasn’t feeling well.
“What did Dr. Michelson say?” Henry asked.
Madeleine set plates, glasses, and silverware on the table. “It’s his tonsils again. This is the third time this year. Dr. Michelson doesn’t think they’ll have to be removed, but they want to monitor him. Poor Goose.”
1994
Shawn did not appreciate being hauled to Dr. Michelson’s office for a sore throat. He had had so many sore throats in his life that he was used to them, even though they still totally sucked.
A slightly older Dr. Michelson sat on his stool in front of the examining table. “Shawn, your tonsils are inflamed again. We normally discuss removing them if episodes of tonsillitis occur more frequently than what you’ve experienced, but you’ve been hovering dangerously close to the clinical guidelines for the last few years.”
Shawn fervently shook his head. “I’m fine. I can’t believe my dad dragged me here,” he added quietly.
“No, Shawn, you’re not fine. We really need to discuss the possibility of surgery. Let me get your father and we’ll talk about making an appointment with an otolaryngologist. You’ll like her,” Dr. Michelson added, hoping to appeal to the teenage hormones raging through his young patient.
“No way. No surgery.” Shawn jumped off the examining table and stormed out of the room, past the reception desk, and past his shocked and very angry father.
Dr. Michelson stopped next to Henry as Shawn disappeared around the corner. Shawn was seventeen; not yet an adult, but Dr. Michelson always attempted to treat his teenage patients as adults nonetheless. However, there were some conversations that required a parent. Dr. Michelson took a moment to discuss everything with Henry – perhaps he could get through to his son.
*****************
Shawn was leaning against the side of Henry’s truck when Henry emerged from the medical building. Shawn felt like crap and simply didn’t have the energy to escape on foot, so he settled for the inevitable lecture as they drove home with the knowledge that his bed was waiting for him.
The lecture was glorious; one of Henry’s best, really.
“Shawn, this isn’t a joking matter,” Henry yelled as he climbed out of the truck and followed Shawn up the porch stairs.
Shawn whirled around to face his father. “If it happens again, we’ll talk. Happy?”
Shawn just wanted to collapse on his bed and Henry didn’t have it in him to argue with his son. “Fine.”
Shawn nodded curtly before heading inside and taking the stairs two at a time to the second floor. From the living room, Henry listened to the six footsteps required for Shawn to reach his room. Henry then waited the two seconds it took for Shawn to slam his bedroom door and the six seconds it took for the stereo to blast music only a teenager could love.
1995, 1996, 1997...
Shawn had already left Santa Barbara the next time his tonsils inflamed. He suffered through the repeated assaults as best he could. He wouldn’t get them taken out in Santa Barbara and he certainly wasn’t going to get them taken out in – where was he? It didn’t matter. He and his tonsils would remain as one. End of story.
Present Day
Unfortunately, it wasn’t end of story. His sore throats continued to make annual appearances. For most of his life, he had stayed just beneath the “guidelines” his doctor had repeatedly outlined to him. However, Shawn couldn’t deny that his sore throats were coming with greater frequency and greater ferocity. Nothing was worse than a sore throat – he continually tried to swallow the pain, literally and figuratively, but each swallow only made it worse. Not to mention the lovely fever that accompanied each sore throat was just the cherry on top. He never did anything mean to his tonsils – except for years of abuse by eating the spiciest, most acidic foods he could lay his hands on – but that wasn’t deserving of this level of retaliatory assault by his tonsils. Was it? He thought not.
Unfortunately, Shawn was deeply familiar with his throat’s strategy to attack him. It would start as a slight tickle and within a few hours would turn into an incessant dryness that no amount of water or pineapple smoothie would moisten. Within twenty-four hours, the dryness would become a fierce burning, making the joy of pineapple smoothies vanish and making the act of swallowing analogous to sword swallowing without ever having taken a lesson.
The sore throats would never turn into full-fledged head colds or the flu, which was probably a good thing. However, the sore throats would sometimes last for days. With every sore throat, he would recall years of doctor visits in which the inevitable conversation about sucking his tonsils out would occur. He was actually impressed that he had somehow managed to retain possession of said tonsils, even if those sick little bastards continued to fight him. On so many occasions, the words “tonsillectomy”, or “tonsil-suckoutofme” as Shawn had fondly renamed the procedure, and “otolaryn-something or other” were uttered by his doctor or his parents. Shawn would argue with them for hours as to why such a procedure would be a very bad idea. Once he wore his audience down, they would agree to do “further monitoring”. Once he was old enough to be responsible for making his own doctor’s appointments, he simply wouldn’t make an appointment when his sore throat would inevitably return. Real men did not go to the doctor for something as trivial as a sore throat, unless it was actually caused by a sword being swallowed incorrectly.
His present sore throat was no different. During the previous night, he had quickly progressed past the tickle and dry stages and was now solidly in the pain stage. Even though he was in his thirties, it was times like this that he wanted his mother, his A-Team pajamas, and a bowl of chicken noodle soup (double the noodles, of course). Alas, none of those things were available to him. He could have hauled his ass to the supermarket for the soup, but that would require energy he didn’t possess. He would have to settle for whatever sympathy and care he could wrestle out of Gus.
He looked at the alarm clock on his nightstand: 9:07 AM. He could sleep, or try to sleep, a bit longer.
*****************
“Hey, Shawn,” Gus said without looking up from his computer as Shawn stumbled into the Psych office at 9:58 AM.
Shawn groaned. Sleep had not happened.
Gus glanced up. “Wow, you look like crap.” Gus looked at Shawn’s disheveled clothes and dark circles under his eyes. The telling sign was his limp hair – if Shawn’s hair wasn’t coiffed just so then there was a serious problem. And Shawn’s hair was currently flatter than a pancake.
“Thanks, buddy. I feel like crap, so I guess it’s good my looks are consistent.” Shawn stumbled over to his desk and threw his helmet on top. He then stumbled over to one of the leather chairs and collapsed with another long, drawn-out groan.
Gus continued to stare at his friend. “What’s wrong?”
“My throat hurts.”
“Again? Shawn, how many does that make this year? Five? I’ve said it to you before – that puts you solidly in the American Academy of Otolaryngology – Head and Neck Surgery guidelines for being a candidate for a tonsillectomy, or a ‘tonsil-suckoutofme’ as you refer to it. It’s a standard procedure. You’re not scared, are you?”
Shawn scoffed at Gus’ remark. He was most certainly not scared, but he also didn’t have the energy to once again explain his attachment to his tonsils – or his tonsils’ attachment to him. Ignoring Gus, he groaned again. “I feel like there’s a gang of Fraggles drilling in my throat.”
“Don’t you mean Doozers?”
Shawn contemplated Gus’ correction and grimaced as he attempted to swallow. “Huh, you’re right. I can’t believe I mixed up Fraggles and Doozers. What’s next? Buddy, come look at my throat and tell me how many Doozers are in there doing construction. They’re torturing me.”
“I am not going to look at your throat.”
“Yes, you are. Grab one of your tongue depressor thingies and get over here.”
“I don’t have any tongue depressors. You gave them all to Byrd in exchange for Tancana, remember?”
“Dude, that was over two years ago and we got them back along with the attaché.” Shawn looked at Gus. “You know, I’m still not completely wed to that term. Satchel really worked better. Either way, get over here.” Shawn stopped talking – it was beginning to hurt too much.
“No way.”
Shawn groaned as he heaved himself out of the chair and staggered over to Gus’ desk, where he stood with drooping shoulders and flat hair. “Come on, buddy!”
Gus looked at his friend standing in front him and felt sorry for him – Shawn was clearly not at the top of his game. Even though he was revolted by the thought of looking down Shawn’s throat, he acquiesced knowing that tonsillitis was not contagious and knowing that Shawn would persist until he got his way. “Fine,” Gus said as he angrily ripped open his bottom desk drawer to reveal a huge stash of tongue depressors.
Shawn peeked over the top of the desk and into the drawer. “Really?”
Gus grabbed a depressor and stood up. “Shut up. Now, open up and say ahh,” Gus said as he peeled the paper wrapper from one of the depressors and flicked on a small flashlight. Gus smiled to himself – he loved sounding like a doctor.
“You just told me to shut up.”
“Shawn! Stick your tongue out.”
“Okay, okay,” Shawn said and stuck his tongue out as far as it would go.
Gus’ face scrunched up. “Shawn, that’s disgusting. You’re not Gene Simmons – put your tongue back in your mouth.”
“Wolph youph make uph yourph mind,” Shawn said as he put his tongue back in his mouth. “First you say shut up and then open up. Now you say stick my tongue out and then don’t stick my tongue out—“
“Shawn!”
“Stop confusing me! Fine,” Shawn said again and opened his mouth.
Making sure to keep significant distance regardless of the fact that Shawn likely wasn’t contagious, Gus leaned over and put the tongue depressor on Shawn’s tongue as he aimed the flashlight into Shawn’s mouth. He looked at the back of his friend’s throat as best he could from the distance he was standing. “Say ahh.”
“Aaaahhh.”
“Damn,” Gus muttered, “that’s nasty.” Gus took the tongue depressor out of Shawn’s mouth, quickly threw it in the trashcan, and immediately went to wash his hands lest any of Shawn’s non-contagious germs remain on them for any longer.
“Am I going to die? Have the Doozers finally run out of space to erect their scaffolding?”
“No on both counts, but your throat is covered in nasty white spots. Call your doctor.”
Shawn cringed thinking about the destruction those evil little Doozers were doing to him. He collapsed once again in the leather chair. “No, I’m fine.”
“Shawn, you just made me risk my life with your germs. Call your doctor.”
“Gus, I can take care of myself.”
“Yes, you can, but you won’t, which means I have to make sure you do. Call your doctor.”
Shawn heaved himself upright in the chair with a moan definitely not befitting of the simple movement. Once he retrieved his phone from his back pocket, he settled back in the chair with another horrendous moan and scrolled through his contact list. When the number was selected, he held the phone to his ear and glared at Gus.
Gus stared at him. “You think I’m stupid, Shawn? You either just dialed the daily horoscope line or the NOAA weather service.”
“I most certainly did not!” Shawn winced as he swallowed. He could hear his voice already picking up the telltale rasp. It would only be a matter of hours before it would disappear completely.
“Prove it. Put it on speaker phone.”
“No!”
Before Shawn could react, Gus dove around his desk and snatched the phone from Shawn’s grasp. He immediately pressed the speaker phone button and stared knowingly at Shawn.
Shawn innocently looked away from Gus as they listened to the voice on the other end of the call: The current temperature is 84 degrees with sunny skies. Tonight’s low will be 63…
“Unbelievable, Shawn.”
“I know. Talk about a perfect beach day – let’s go!”
“Not until you call your doctor, Shawn,” Gus threatened. Gus scrolled through Shawn’s contact list until he found his doctor’s name. He pressed the send button and tossed the phone back to Shawn.