06 · Three Balls

The number three followed me everywhere. A few days ago I woke up with a small swelling under my jaw — about the size of a ball. My wife asked what it was. Since I hadn’t been travelling for a while, I told her a third ball had decided to grow, and I wasn’t the one who’d chosen where to place it. She told me to stop being an idiot and see a doctor.

But which doctor — general practitioner, hospital, specialist? The specialist charged money, so he was out. I settled for the emergency clinic, where a woman doctor opened the gate and asked what I wanted. “Two kilos of bananas, if you let me in — I’ll tell you which variety.” She smiled and let me in.

Then she saw my face, and my third ball. Gloves appeared. Mumps were ruled out — I’d already survived those at four. The verdict: an inflamed lymph node. Operation “Guaranteed Income for Doctors” had officially begun — an antibiotic, a steroid, an ultrasound, and a return visit in three days. When she started writing instructions for how the ultrasound should be performed, I asked if her colleague really needed written directions to know how an ultrasound works. “You’re right,” she said.

Then came the inevitable question: what do you do for a living? “I’m a patient. But I spend most of my time in fruit and vegetable shops.” I stood up, told her I’d treat myself with garlic instead, and that she was among the lucky few who’d actually reach retirement — once people discovered the effects, many of her colleagues might need a new profession.

At home, my wife was waiting, concerned. I told her not to worry. Soon I’d be travelling again, and the swelling would probably disappear — maybe even before the plane landed.