Lethal Dose

I have hives.

Eve and I are chatting. “I’m convinced I have pneumonia, and the more symptoms I Google, the more of them I instantly develop,” she says.

I agree. Googling is the hypochondriac’s nightmare. What would Felix Unger do? I’m starting to google “hives” and suddenly I’m in trouble. What if I have them for life? Do I have the “right” kind? Let’s do an image search for hives:

Wow! How did she get here? Did Dolly have hives too?

Eve continues, “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. If I don’t feel better tomorrow, I’ll call Dr. Bombay. I’m just getting over food poisoning, so that may be why I ache all over, too. We get no sick days here, so everyone comes in sick as pups. Do you have a good network of doctors out there? I love Dr. Bombay.”

We don’t have sick days either, but staying home with hives won’t do me any good. I would have too much time on my hands to think about how itchy I am. Eve has a good doctor despite her protests:

“You might add that Dr. Bombay will prescribe anything for me except laudanum, which I’ve been asking for for years. He insists they don’t make it anymore, but I think he’s just hoarding it all for himself.”