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reeking of Vindaloo
Saturday, April 6 2002
For the past months it seems I've been continually plagued by one sort of minor medical malady or another. Back in the autumn around Thanksgiving time, there was some sporadic low-frequency tinnitus and hearing loss in my left ear. Then, even before my ear spontaneously healed itself, my right lower eyelid became inflamed. Later, throughout January and continuing even to this day, my left knee experienced freak cramps and minor ligament pains.
My most recent plague has been a series of sores in my mouth, the latest of which seems to have migrated up the salivary duct in my right cheek, imparting (through some mysterious galvanic effect) a metallic flavor to the side of my tongue. Even without sore spots and blemishes, the mouth is a freaky enough place. It's just a little too pink and, to borrow an adjective from chewing gum advertising, bursting with biological necessity at the expense of æsthetics.
A mouth sore has an unusual capacity to rob you of your irrational (but essential) sense of immortality. It attacks you when you speak, when you eat, when you yawn, when you toss and turn in your sleep, sometimes even when you breathe. Still, in the grand scheme of thing, mouth sores are mostly just minor annoyances in life. Only when my salivary ducts are affected do I have any concern. (Once back in the mid 90s I had to go to the doctor because half my face was swollen from an infected salivary duct.)
So today I treated my condition with hot saline solution and, later, ethanol. Ethanol is great cure for all modern ailments. Well, it feels like a cure-all when it's administered, that's really what I mean.
Another great treatment that may be more psychological than medical is spicy food. Last night I cooked up a red bean pasta dish rich so in garlic that it made beads of sweat stand out on my forehead. Tonight Gretchen cooked up some Indian food: curry, basmati rice, etc. How can microbes of any description gain a foothold in a body when it reeks of Vindaloo? Indeed, spicy food may be the key to India's success in packing such densities of people together in steamy tropical conditions.
Another thing that can really add to the misery of a sore mouth is depressing music. I guess when I was in a download frenzy a couple months ago I obtained particularly dreary version of the Metallica song "One" on Morpheus. It features all these little voiceovers describing, from the vantage point of a metal musician trying to relate to a jaded teenager, what it's like to be comatose quadruple amputee. I can't decide whether it's cheesy, in bad taste, or just intriguing enough not to skip. Being 34 years old, I certainly wouldn't want to admit to being intrigued by it.
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