When I lived in Italy during my first sabbatical, I feared having to see a doctor. I definitely didn’t want a health problem, especially when I didn’t speak the language. Thankfully, I was lucky. Though I suffered what I came to call the “Florence drip” (runny nose) quite a lot, I never needed an MD.
Alas, my international lucky streak has ended.
This summer I was preoccupied with preparing for my sabbatical. At some point I noticed I had a bug bite on the side of my right calf, but I didn’t thing much of it. When I got to Ireland, I noticed the bite was still there. It itched, sometimes badly. I still didn’t think much about it. About the time Kevin left, I started to pay closer attention to the spot. I couldn’t remember when it appeared, but I remembered it had been there for a few weeks before I left the country. I decided it should have healed in that amount of time.
One evening while Skyping with my dad, I showed it to him and he said, “Hmmm… You should have someone look at that.” I said, “I am. You.” The next day I went into a pharmacy and asked for something for a bug bite. I used the cream for three days, the limit for use indicated on the tube. No improvement.
In fact, it seemed worse. Yesterday I went into a pharmacy near Eyre Square and talked to a very kind pharmacist. He brought me into a side room and looked at the spot and said, “That is not a bug bite.” He said he thought it might be a fungal infection but he wasn’t sure because they are usually bigger. He then told me I really should see a doctor, just in case. He insisted that he was pretty sure there was nothing SERIOUSLY wrong with me, but just to be safe... The more he reassured me, the more I began to think that something serious could actually be wrong.
Of course, I assumed cancer. Val disabused me of that notion quite handily during a conversation yesterday when she said, “Um, how exactly would YOU get skin cancer. Now SHADE cancer, I could see that.” Point taken.
After a diligent web search of pictures of all sorts of skin problems (really, I can’t recommend it) the closest I could come is ringworm. I learned all sorts of things about it. For example, there is a ring but there is no worm. Also, it’s easily treated with an anti-fungal cream.
I called Dr. Sinead Murphy, the doctor recommended by the pharmacist, and I was able to get an appointment for this afternoon. Dr. Murphy’s office is only a five-minute walk from my apartment. I was surprised to discover that the entrance to her suite is directly across the hall from the offices of one of the management companies I visited when I was apartment hunting; I didn’t notice it back then.
I checked in with a receptionist who gave me a short form to fill out and then I waited in a small waiting room filled with health information and magazines. Dr. Murphy herself called me into her office. No one weighed me or took my blood pressure. I sat in a chair and she sat at her desk. The setting felt much less “clinical” than I am used to. Frankly, I felt much more comfortable than I do in most doctors' offices.
Dr. Murphy looked very closely at the spot on my leg and determined I have an “odd sort of fungal infection.” It’s not ringworm, but it’s similar. She entered information for a prescription into her computer and it printed out on her desk. This seems like a great way to avoid errors caused by bad handwriting.
I stopped at the desk and gave the receptionist 50 euro and walked out of the office, prescription and receipt in hand and ready to go about the business of killing a fungus.
Apparently, there was nothing to fear.
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