Because of his dia betes, Mark spends a lot of time in the nurse's office. That, and the fact his initials are MD, have convinced him he is a medical expert.
He's quick to self-diagnose using his extensive medical knowledge. So when the office staff called yesterday to say he was ill, I wasn't surprised. (He always waits until the nurse goes to lunch; it's easier for him to con the busy office staff into calling me.) He looked okay to me, though; he was horsing around with his friend Moises when I found him, but changed to a sad, sickly expression when he saw me.
Mark had a fever, which he told me in a hushed voice was "99.1." He sounded like he feared immediate death or spontaneous combustion.
"You're supposed to be 98.6," I told him. "You're only half a degree hotter than you should be."
He replied the way he always does when he doesn't like my answer. "I thought you weren't good at math," he said.
Over dinner, he told me how all of his class was really sick. He said the teacher's daughter also had a temperature, but hers was way higher than his.
"She was burning up," he told me. "Seriously -- she was 330 degrees!"
"Wow, that is high," I agreed.
"Yeah," he said. "That's hotter than boiling water! Mr. P had a fever too, but his was only 108, so he wasn't too bad."
"What'd they do for her?" I asked.
"You know, the usual. She wore an ice pack on her head all day long. And they cut her bangs, because they were really long."
I didn't know haircuts lowered fevers.
"Wow, glad you aren't that high," I told him.
"Yeah, I was at lunch. I was like 150. But I feel better now." He tucked into his tacos eagerly, all traces of fever or sickness dissipating. "Wanna play football after dinner?"
I assured him I did, but didn't want him to relapse. He said, "Yeah, I don't want to get sick again. I should stay inside." He picked a more mellow indoor activity instead, beating his drumset in the garage for a good 30 minutes.
Ahhh, only a few more months of flu season left.
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