Ask Dr. Ding

Dr. Ding is sad to report that she is sick with some kind of bug. Sick sick sick.

I have also lost my voice, which is incredibly annoying both professionally and personally. I’d love to be able to tell y’all some kind of mystical stuff like how in losing one voice I found another, or that I’ve located my 27th chakra, or that I’m doing better therapy with my patients because I’m listening more deeply, but in truth, it just fucking sucks.

My nursing home patients are often hard of hearing, and so having laryngitis tires out both them and me. The last two days have been comical, with me trying to “yell” and them trying to hear. Poor bastards. It must be really jarring to have your shrink straining at you and yelling “Let’s take a nice long deep breath and relax, yes that’s it” in your ear in an effort to address your anxiety.

I suppose the common-sense approach would have been for me to stay home and drink tea this week, but I’m not terribly good at that. Nevertheless, this is what I’m doing today. The beyonce and I were supposed to go to this cool asian grocery store called Hong Kong Market and then run some errands, but I’ve been forbidden to get in the car due to the beyonce not wanting to be in a confined space with moi and moi’s germs. So, I’m holed up in the bedroom, trying to take my own advice of resting when one is sick, pushing fluids, napping, etc.

It’s not going very well.

After my week in blissed-out Californian splendor, I’m all itchy to run errands, do laundry, and clean out my bookshelves and clothes closet as a way of aligning my outer world with my newfound inner one. Alas, ’tis not to be. I’m sure there’s some grand cosmic lesson in all this, but frankly it’s just supremely irritating to break into a hacking cough when I try to Get Shit Done.

I know, I know, Dr. Ding isn’t being very centered in her being or open to receiving messages from the universe. Hey, I’m new at this already.

Plans for later include: persuading the beyonce with my sexy sexy voice to fix me a nice double dirty Belvedere martini, threatening him with used tissues when he doesn’t comply, and then capitulating and allowing him to make me a hot toddy using a generous dollop of 18 year-old Scotch. Or maybe I should just make myself that toddy and skip the skullduggery. Subtle negotiating never was my long suit.