Shawn was right the first time – it was Fraggles ripping his throat apart.  Doozers, assiduous as they were, simply couldn’t cause that much pain.  As he stood at the reception desk in Dr. Michelson’s office, Shawn was alarmed at how fast his throat was deteriorating and how fast his temperature was rising.  He thought his last sore throat was the worst, but he was wrong – this easily topped them all. 

As Shawn unwrapped another cherry flavored throat lozenge, he had second thoughts about being there.  Yes, his throat was currently a belt sander equipped with the coarsest sandpaper commercially available, but it was still just a sore throat.  He was an old pro at fighting back against his tonsils.  Well, in reality, he sat by defenselessly until his tonsils got tired of their attack, retreated, and lain in wait until the next blitz.

“You’re lucky that Dr. Michelson had a cancellation,” the receptionist commented warmly.

Shawn struggled with another swallow.  “How right you are.  Gus’ splinter is infected.” Shawn grabbed Gus’ hand, sans splinter, and showed it to the receptionist.

“Shawn, I don’t have a splinter!”  With his other hand, Gus twisted Shawn’s pinky finger until Shawn yelped hoarsely and let go.

The receptionist looked between them as they whispered angrily at each other.  “I thought you were here for a sore throat, Mr. Spencer.”

Gus rubbed his hand where Shawn had grabbed it.  “Excuse my friend, ma’am, you’re absolutely correct.  I don’t have a splinter and he does have a sore throat.”

“I beg to differ,” Shawn rasped.  “You do have a splinter and I think your hand will have to be cut off.  It will probably take the entire appointment, so I’ll just come back later for my sore throat,” Shawn said as he grabbed Gus’ arm and slammed his hand against the edge of the reception desk, attempting to lodge any small, stray slivers of wood beneath his skin.

“Shawn!  Let go of me!”

The receptionist held her hands up to silence them.  They had already drawn the attention of everyone in the waiting room and she hoped to avoid disturbing the entire building.  “Mr. Spencer, it sounds as if the splinters are in your throat.  Please sit down and the doctor will be with you shortly.”

*****************

Most patients sat quietly in the examining room while waiting for their doctor, but this was Shawn.  Rather than sitting or being quiet, he opted to poke through every cabinet and drawer in the room.  Having discovered a stash of extra long cotton swabs, he was in the process of sticking two of them up his nose when the door burst open. 

“Shawn, how are… you?”  Dr. Michelson looked at one swab in Shawn’s right hand and another one sticking out of his left nostril and added casually, “Glad to see you’re practicing good nostril hygiene, Shawn.  Not many people take the time.”  He smiled warmly as he patted the examining table and sat on his stool, the one most patients recognized as off limits. 

Blushing slightly, Shawn quickly took the cotton swab out of his nose and climbed onto the table, causing the white paper cover to rustle loudly beneath him.  He cleared his throat without thinking, which he immediately regretted as his tonsils lashed out in response. 

Dr. Michelson stared at Shawn as he pushed the lever to raise his stool back to his desired height – the height at which it had been before Shawn was left alone in the room.  Shawn smiled innocently in return. 

The last time Dr. Michelson had seen Shawn was shortly after he had been shot.  The time before that was when he had been cold-cocked and pistol-whipped – Shawn had refused to go to the emergency room, but had promised to see his doctor to appease his father and Gus.  Fortunately, the shot was clean and his skull was hard, so there was no lasting damage from either incident.   

Dr. Michelson had just begun his medical career when he first saw Shawn as a young boy, so they had an extensive history together.  In addition to seeing his doctor for annual exams and his recurring sore throats, Shawn was a frequent flyer, literally and figuratively.  Flying off his bike, flying off the roof of the house, or flying out of a tree all led to regular visits with Dr. Michelson.  They had always been extremely fond of each other – Dr. Michelson liked Shawn’s tenacity, and Shawn liked that Dr. Michelson’s lectures were subtle rather than the in your face tirades doled out by his father.  Shawn never fully listened to Dr. Michelson’s lectures, because honestly, when did he listen to any lecture, but he also hadn’t blocked them out entirely.  He’d simply fly off of or out of something different instead.

Now that he was a psychic detective, Shawn’s frequent flyer miles were increasing once again.  Shawn liked that Dr. Michelson retained his subtly when he’d casually comment for Shawn to stay out of the path of a bullet or duck when a punch was coming at him the next time.

Dr. Michelson slowly rolled over to the table as he scanned Shawn’s chart.  “We have to stop meeting like this.  I don’t see you for over a decade and now this is the third time I’ve seen you in four years.  How’s your shoulder?”  Dr. Michelson tossed the chart on the table next to Shawn before reaching over and gently feeling around the recently healed wound.  “No residual pain?”

“I’m good, Doc.”

“Good, good.  Shawn, I don’t need to read your chart to figure out why you’re here,” Dr. Michelson said as he waved his fingers in front of Shawn’s throat indicating his raspy voice said it all.  Dr. Michelson knew Shawn still had his tonsils and also knew that he hadn’t seen another doctor for them in the time he had left and returned to Santa Barbara.  How the kid, now a man, had made it through so many years with those tonsils was startling.  “The sore throat must be bad to bring you in,” he added as he shoved a thermometer into Shawn’s mouth.

Shawn reached up to grab it so that he could talk, but Dr. Michelson immediately put his hand out to stop him.

“Really, Doc, I’m fine,” Shawn said the second Dr. Michelson removed the thermometer.  “I think it’s a nasty cold coming on, so I’ll just go home, drink plenty of fluids, and watch plenty of cartoons.  Cartoon Network is playing a Jem marathon this afternoon.  Sorry to waste your time.  I’ll be sure to come back if I get pistol-whipped or shot again though.  Good seeing you.”  Shawn hopped off the table and walked toward the door. 

Shawn had clammed up again.  Until that day, Shawn had kept his word and never made a doctor’s appointment when he had a sore throat.  Until that day, he had whined to Gus about his sore throats and Gus had demanded that he call his doctor, but it never went any further.  However, on that day, Shawn didn’t hang up the phone.  The reason for the massive shift in the universe was simple: the level of pain was more intense than anything he previously experienced and it worried him.  It felt as if a flamethrower was aimed down his throat every time he swallowed.  Unfortunately, he had to swallow – trying to avoid swallowing only made him want to swallow more, and the longer he went between swallows, the worse it was.  Although, frequently swallowing was even worse, so it was a lose-lose situation.  The added bonus this time was the pain in his ears, so every time he swallowed he felt as if Ceti eels from Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan were beginning their trek to his cerebral cortex.

Dr. Michelson cleared his throat and Shawn knew he was prepping his lecture voice.  Considering Dr. Michelson hadn’t been able to give Shawn this particular lecture in over a decade, Shawn figured he was brimming with excitement.  He clearly got his kicks from trying to convince Shawn to relinquish ownership of his tonsils.  Shawn’s hand was on the door knob when Dr. Michelson spoke.

“Shawn, are your sore throats increasing in frequency?”

Shawn paused.  Where was the lecture?  Lectures didn’t start with questions; they started with “Shawn, sit down”.  Shawn sighed and looked at the ceiling, his hand still gripping the door knob.  His “yes” was barely audible, and not just because of his rapidly intensifying laryngitis.  He hated to admit Dr. Michelson was right – he had been right about everything else since Shawn was a kid, so why wouldn’t he be right about this?

“Is the pain worse each time?” 

Now that Shawn was an adult, he expected a sterner, subtlety-free version of Dr. Michelson’s previous lecture format.  He wasn’t expecting this, whatever this was. 

Shawn turned around slowly and nodded.  Dr. Michelson felt a pang of sympathy when he saw Shawn’s face – Shawn looked just like the boy he had seen so many years ago.  The boy had only showed his fear on a handful of occasions, instead opting for arguing or storming out of the office.  Now the man allowed a clear, albeit fleeting, view of his fear before it evaporated into a fake grin.  How the man could be a private detective, an inherently dangerous job, yet be so wary of a straightforward procedure was hard for Dr. Michelson to comprehend.  He figured it was due to twenty years of Shawn fighting against it and building it up in his mind to be the most horrible thing in the world.

Shawn did his own prepping, minus any attempt at throat clearing (he wouldn’t make that mistake again), for his retaliatory argument as to why separating him from his tonsils would be a bad idea.  He opened his mouth to begin his counterargument, although he still wasn’t sure what he was countering, but nothing came out.  The truth of the matter was that Shawn didn’t have a rebuttal this time.  His tonsils were a problem and it wasn't going to go away on its own.

Dr. Michelson reached behind him and pulled open a drawer at the same time he patted the examination table again. 

“Seriously, I’m fine,” Shawn said as he walked back over and jumped onto the table.  His words and actions were as far apart as two things could possibly be.

“Shawn, please be quiet.  Now, open up and say ahh.”

“Should I be quiet or should I say ahh?  I really wish all of you would make up your minds.  I’m not feeling well and you’re confusing me with your mixed messages.”

Dr. Michelson had years of experience in handling Shawn.  “Stop talking except for the word ‘ahh’.”

Shawn nodded grumpily and opened his mouth.  As directed, a scratchy ahh was the only sound Shawn made.

“Hmm…” Dr. Michelson mumbled as peered into Shawn’s throat.  “Hmm...” 

“Give it to me straight, Doc.  It’s the Fraggles, isn’t it?”

Dr. Michelson didn’t miss a beat and suddenly became quite serious.  “No, it’s the Gorgs.”  He looked up and laughed at Shawn’s surprise that an old man such as himself could make a Fraggle Rock reference.  “Just kidding, it’s tonsillitis.  A sore throat from a cold doesn’t produce white spots.  A cold also wouldn’t give you the lovely 102 degree temperature you’re currently running.  We’ll have to take a culture to confirm, but you appear to have another, and might I add severe, case of tonsillitis.  Hang tight, I’ll be right back.”

While Dr. Michelson was gone, Shawn sat quietly on the examining table, well, with the exception of the paper cover crunching loudly beneath him at his slightest movement.  He was no longer in the mood for practicing good nostril hygiene.  He swallowed, hoping his sore throat would magically disappear.  When he again felt the flamethrower and the Ceti eels, he slumped down further.

Dr. Michelson returned five anxiety-filled minutes later and sat down, pleased that the height of his stool hadn’t been touched in his absence.  “Shawn, I just spoke with Dr. Flynn, an otolaryngologist.  You’re in luck – first I had a cancellation and now Sam has a cancellation and can see you in twenty minutes.  I told the good doctor all about you and said that if you’re not seen now, you probably never will be.”  Dr. Michelson smiled widely, beaming with pride over his accomplishment to finally get Shawn to see an otolaryngologist.

Dr. Michelson didn’t have to explain to Shawn what an otolaryngologist did or why he was being sent to one.  The danger of a “tonsil-suckoutofme” was clear and present.  “I did eat my Lucky Charms this morning…”

Dr. Michelson smiled.  “Shawn, I can say this because I know you’ll take it the right way.  One of my goals before retirement was to make sure you were separated from your tonsils, so thank you, I can retire happy.”

“Not just yet, Doc,” Shawn quipped.

Shawn emerged through the inner office door with Dr. Michelson just as Gus was passing one of his business cards, most likely with his cell phone number written in his perfect penmanship on the back, to the receptionist.  Shawn rolled his eyes – while he was learning of his painful demise, his callous best friend was picking up a woman.  It had probably started out as Gus doing damage control for their earlier outburst, but had evidently gone beyond that in the fifteen minutes Shawn had left them to their own devices.

As Gus approached them, Dr. Michelson smiled and held out his hand.  “Gus, how are you?”  They had met each other numerous times following Shawn’s various flights off of things, and more recently, following Shawn’s various run-ins with criminals.  “Gus, perhaps you could help me with something.  I’ve arranged an appointment for Shawn with an otolaryngologist on the eighth floor in twenty minutes.  Would you be so kind as to make sure he gets there?”

Gus and Dr. Michelson laughed and shook hands to seal the deal as Shawn looked at them in shock.  He had just been viciously betrayed by two of the people he trusted the most. 

Shawn glared at Gus before turning to Dr. Michelson.  “Isn’t telling him about my appointment against doctor-patient privilege?”

Dr. Michelson clapped Shawn on the back and smiled widely.  “No.  Good seeing you, Shawn.  I hope you feel better.  Tell your father I say hello.” 

****************

Nineteen minutes later, Gus walked into the office of one Dr. Sam Flynn, otolaryngologist.  He stopped, nodded politely to the receptionist, turned around, and immediately left the office. 

Nineteen minutes and thirteen seconds later, Gus again walked into the office of one Dr. Sam Flynn, a vice grip on Shawn’s arm as he roughly yanked his best friend through the door and pulled him over to the reception desk.

“Get your business card with your perfect penmanship ready, buddy.  Another receptionist in sight…”  Shawn rasped sarcastically as he pulled his arm out of Gus’ grasp.

Gus ignored Shawn and waited quietly for him to check in.  Shawn’s hesitation earned him an elbow to the ribs.  After a second elbow to the ribs, Shawn caved in and finally gave his name to the receptionist.

****************

Shawn paced anxiously in the examining room waiting for the doctor.  He didn’t care about poking through cabinets and drawers or finding extra long cotton swabs.  Shawn’s only thought was on the growing conspiracy amongst his friends and healthcare providers to separate him from his tonsils.  He was sure his parents were already involved – they were probably anonymously leading the charge. 

He paced and paced some more until the door opened. 

Shawn whirled around and instantly smiled, almost forgetting the reason he was there.  Much to his delight, Dr. Sam Flynn was a Samantha, not a Samuel.  Even though a 102 degree temperature was raging through his body and 2002 degree molten lava was now flowing down his throat, Shawn perked up as he saw just how beautiful she was.  Her red hair was tossed casually into a bun, freckles were sprinkled liberally on her fair skin, and green eyes shone brightly behind wire framed glasses.  She appeared to be his age, and a quick glance confirmed there no wedding band.  Shawn remembered that Dr. Michelson had tried to con him into seeing an otolaryngologist when he was a teenager by saying the doctor was female.  This was, of course, a different doctor, but he was quite pleased there was an ongoing trend in female otolaryngologists. 

It was love at first sight.  Or love at first puppy.  Or puppy love.  Shawn didn’t know – his 102 degree temperature had just ratcheted up to 103 degrees and his ability to think clearly was going up in flames.  He just knew he was in love.  It crossed his mind that it probably wasn’t love per se, but instead a much needed escape from the recent turmoil surrounding Abigail and Juliet.

As Shawn looked at Dr. Flynn, he immediately wished he had taken the time to do up his updo.  At least he had taken a shower and put on a clean shirt and boxers.  Not that a throat doctor would have cause to see his boxers, but he could only hope.

Oh crap, Shawn thought suddenly, he didn’t want her to see his nasty looking throat.  That would definitely be a turn off.  Wait, she was an otolaryn-whatever, so maybe the worse his throat looked the more appealing he would be?  He imagined his throat was out-and-out revolting at the moment, so she would take one look at his infected tonsils and melt.

Thank God for tonsillitis.

“Hello, Mr. Spencer—“

“Call me Shawn,” he rasped.  For once, the accompanying laryngitis with his tonsil infection was a positive thing as it made his voice sound Barry White sexy.

She smiled.  “Hello, Shawn, I’m Dr. Flynn.  I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Shawn tried to turn on the charm as he smiled back, but the pilot light on his flirting furnace was out.  The irony was not lost on him that feeling like crap completely ruined his chances of picking up a hot doctor.  Hot doctors didn’t exactly hang out at Tom Blair’s Pub, nor were they involved in many police investigations, so he had very little opportunity to meet a hot doctor except for when he was sick.  But when he was sick, he had zero game. 

“What do you do for work, Shawn?”

“I’m a psychic detective,” Shawn croaked casually, still desperately trying to light the pilot light.  He had always found the simple statement had more of an impact than elaborating on his occupation.

“Did you say psychic?”

Even being on death’s door, he could see her doubt.  His tonsils had zapped his observation skills, so he needed to dig deep.  He saw the faint outline of a recent coffee spill that had dried.  He saw her glance at her wrist repeatedly.  He saw her thick hair was still damp in places, and considering how put together her outfit was (minus the coffee stain), her hair was comparatively messy.  He assumed his signature stance with his hands to his temples, only temporarily taken aback at the heat radiating off his head.  He took a deep breath and focused before looking at her.  “Having a case of the Mondays are we?  Spilled coffee, not able to wear your watch because of a dead battery, a broken hairdryer…  Everything comes in threes and I sense your luck will improve for the rest of the day.  It has already improved by meeting me.”

She stared, a curious expression on her face as her green eyes twinkled at him.  “I’ll give you that one, Shawn,” she said quietly and quickly picked up his chart.

He smiled again – he could tell she still doubted him, but he had definitely thrown her off.  He was the lucky one – he guessed on the watch battery, assuming a doctor wouldn’t have time to get it replaced right away.  At least he proved he had some game when he was sick. 

“Shawn, let’s check that throat of yours.  Lie down please.”

Shawn was about to open up and say ahh as that was everyone else’s first request, when he heard her ask him to lie down.  Did she say lie down?  Oh, this examination was starting off nicely…

He awkwardly stretched out on the table – making a note to contact the supplier of those damn paper covers as they made gracefully lying down in front of hot doctors virtually impossible while trying to avoid ripping said paper or falling off the table because said paper was ridiculously slippery.

Dr. Flynn turned on a blinding overhead task light and adjusted it above him.  She rested her hand briefly on his arm as she said, “Open up for me, please.”

Goose bumps erupted on every inch of Shawn’s skin as she touched him.  He was instantly thrown back to the second grade when Melanie McIntyre, the most beautiful girl in all of Santa Barbara, well, all of the Kenneth J. Dusman Elementary School at least, brushed against him in the hallway.  Shawn quickly pulled himself back to the present and obliged.

She leaned over him and Shawn’s heartbeat skyrocketed.  Was that lavender he smelled?  He didn’t need Gus’ super smeller for confirmation.  It quickly blocked the cherry smell of the throat lozenges he had been popping for the past two hours and it was incredible.

After an examination that was far too quick in Shawn’s opinion, she rested her hand once again on his arm.  “You have very attractive tonsils, Shawn.  You can sit up now.”

Ha!  He knew it – his insides were just as attractive as his outside.  Did he have to sit up?  She could join him on the slippery paper covered table if she wanted to…

She jotted down a few notes in his chart as he struggled to return to a sitting position, only ripping the paper cover in three spots in the process.  She looked up and crossed her arms, immediately becoming serious.  Shawn sensed the shift and gave up trying to restart the pilot light.  “Shawn, with what Dr. Michelson has told me about your history of tonsillitis and with what I’m seeing now, I’m scheduling you for an immediate tonsillectomy.” 

Shawn was blown away by the suddenness of the recommendation and was viciously yanked out of the harlequin novel in which he was Fabio and Dr. Flynn was his heroine.  What did she just say?  Immediate tonsillectomy?  She had another thing coming if she thought she could say something so absurd without a comeback. 

Shawn readied himself for his argument on separating him from his tonsils.  “But I’m attached to my tonsils,” he attempted feebly and immediately groaned internally.  That was his argument?  He swallowed and was reminded that the relationship with his tonsils was long overdue for a divorce.

“That may be, Shawn, but they are not staying attached to you for much longer.  There is no other option.”

Shawn looked down and thought about what she said.  No other option.  There was always another option, wasn’t there?  He was an adult now, somewhat, and had to face facts – there really wasn’t another option this time.  “Not that I’m agreeing,” he began, making sure he retained an out even if there wasn’t one, “but theoretically speaking, how would they be removed?” 

“Glad you asked,” she said and pulled a stack of photographs from a nearby drawer. 

Shawn tried to hide his repulsion as he was shown picture after picture of tonsils and throats in various states.  He’d gladly look at the most grisly of crime scene photos any day over these photos.  He was shown one particularly horrific picture of infected tonsils and wondered if that was how his tonsils currently looked.

Dr. Flynn wasted no time before she explained, in gruesome detail, exactly what was involved in a tonsillectomy.  After ten minutes of way too much detail over how tonsils were connected to adenoids which were connected to hip bones (okay, with a few body parts and internal organs shoved in between), Shawn was thunderstruck.  He tried to concentrate on the beauty of her voice rather than the ugliness of her words, but her words were horrendous and overpowered everything else.  He tried to look at her beautiful hair, freckles, and eyes, but images of man-eating tonsils kept overtaking his mind. 

He had missed half, if not most, of what she said.  However, Shawn got the gist: his tonsils would be hacked out, sorry, extracted, and the resulting holes would be burned, sorry, cauterized, to stop any geysers of blood from erupting.

“Do you have any questions?”

“You said you use a scalpel?  That’s pointy, right?”

Dr. Flynn wasn’t aware of Shawn’s “distaste” for pointy things and that voluntarily agreeing to go under the knife for any reason was not an option for him.  She just assumed his odd question was caused by his temperature or by a last ditch attempt to keep a twenty year battle over his tonsils alive.  “You’ll be fine, Shawn.  You’ll be under general anesthesia and won’t feel a thing.”

“Until I wake up…” he challenged.

She smiled.  “Yes, you won’t feel a thing until you wake up.  Barring any complications, you’ll go home the same day, but plan to miss a week of work.  Unfortunately, tonsillectomies are a bit more uncomfortable for adults.  It will be a rough few days, I won’t lie to you, but the long term benefits far outweigh a few days of distress.  It will take a while for your insurance company to approve the procedure, but once that is done, we’ll arrange a pre-op visit and schedule the surgery.  Do you have any other questions?” 

Shawn shook his head slowly, not fully comprehending what had just happened.  Had he just agreed to a tonsil-suckoutofme?  How the hell did that happen?  That was why there were so many female otolaryngologists – distract the patient with their intellect and beauty and they’ll say yes without even knowing it. 

Dr. Flynn pulled a massive pile of paper from another drawer and handed it to Shawn.  “Here’s some literature on tonsillectomies.  Read as little or as much as you want and I’ll answer any questions at the pre-op.  In the meantime, I want you to drink plenty of fluids to get that inflammation down.  Eat what’s comfortable to you, but please avoid spicy and acidic foods as they’ll aggravate your throat.”

“Are pineapple smoothies okay?”

“They’re a bit acidic, but they’re fine.”

Shawn smiled, but even a doctor’s order to drink pineapple smoothies wasn’t enough to counter what he had just seemingly agreed to.  He could almost hear Dr. Michelson screaming in delight five floors below as he planned his retirement party.

Dr. Flynn escorted Shawn out of the office and into the reception area.  Gus was genuinely concerned when he saw his shell-shocked friend, but the concern vanished when his shell-shocked friend’s doctor came into view.  Shawn’s sudden and intense glare indicated she would not be the next recipient of Gus’ business card with his cell phone number written in his perfect penmanship on the back.

“So?” Gus asked gently as Shawn checked out at the reception desk.

“I’ve been ordered to drink pineapple smoothies,” Shawn croaked.

“That’s it?”

“Yup.”

Dr. Flynn rested her hand on Shawn’s arm.  Despite the fact his fate had just been sealed, goose bumps formed on his skin and his heartbeat increased at her touch.  “Nice meeting you, Shawn.  We’ll be in touch about scheduling a pre-op visit shortly.  See you again soon.”

As she walked back toward her office, Shawn smiled as she looked at her watchless wrist. 

Gus looked down at the tonsillectomy literature under Shawn’s hand.  “That’s it, huh?”