(Tokyo, 2006)
When he’d filled the cup to the line as directed, he wrote his name with a thick black marker on the side. (Does that make it art? he wondered.) The cup he left by the sign Specimens Here but he still didn’t know what to do with the marker.
Leaving the bathroom, he tried to hand it to the nurse. She eyed it with terror.
“No, no,” she said. “In the bathroom.” And she followed him back and stood at the door and directed him. “Not there! No. To the left. On the shelf. Yes.”
Visibly relieved, she handed him the pristine paper packet. One tablet, twice a day after meals. She didn’t say anything else.
He thought it was unfair that nurses were immediately unfriendly once they learned the nature of the problem. After all, he could have gotten an infection entirely innocently. He hadn’t, but he could have.
The doctor had been curt, which is not to say condemnatory. “I bet you know all about urinary tract infections.” Which was not such a nice thing to say. It was, however, true.
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