top of page
  • Writer's pictureStanislava Buevich

Taster. Clearlake...

There will come a time when you wonder: How did a girl like me end up in a terrible place like Clearlake and in mortal danger? Well, it all started with a terrible cold. At first, it was just a blocked nose. Then a sore throat, nothing major. About a week later, I got a temperature. And the blocked nose got worse. Much worse. I lost all sense of smell and the ability to breathe. Snot kept trickling down from my nostril to my top lip, which I had to persistently wipe it off with my sleeve or taste the said snot. I had a headache. A constant, nagging, relentless headache as if a woodpecker was incessantly pecking above the bridge of my nose.

I was thirteen at the time and missed so many days of school that my mother got fined by the government. Now, I know what you're thinking - any responsible parent would have taken their offspring to a GP if the wretched illness hadn't gone away within a week. Well, not my mother.

My mother didn't trust Western Medicine, you see. Particularly vaccines and antibiotics. As far as she was concerned, those two were the source of all evil. I count myself incredibly lucky that, so far, I have managed to avoid catching something particularly nasty like Rubella, Mumps, or Measles. I've never had anything more severe than a cold, in fact. And while most colds went away without intervention, other than a honey, lemon and gin concoction (which was surprisingly effective, never mind that I was far too young to take it), this cold proved to be something else entirely.

About a week in, my mother marched into my room early in the morning. Loud, insistent stomps woke me up from a hazy, feverish dream. She touched my forehead with the tips of her fingers and raised her eyebrow, nodding as if everything was going according to plan.

"Well, I think I know what will finally do the trick," she said.

I rolled my eyes. Well, not actually. Not on the outside. The outside she could see. I rolled my eyes on the inside; I pictured myself rolling them so far inside their sockets that all that was left were the white bits.

"Beetroot!" she exclaimed, her voice chiming like a Christmas bell.

"Beetroot?" I yawned, and a few tears seeped out of the corners of my eyes. I wasn't exactly sure if the yawn caused it or the ever-escalating feeling of utter desperation.

"A few drops of beetroot juice inside your nose three times a day, and you will be good as new. I promise."

She made similar promises a lot.

"If you stick a clove of garlic in each nostril overnight, in the morning… Poof. Cured. Gone. I promise."

"Breathing over a pot with hot potatoes and a duvet over your head will open up the sinuses and unleash the phlegm. All of the gunk will just stream out. You'll see. I promise."

"If you do a wee in a little pot and then take some of that wee with a little pipette that I've got here for you and…"

“NO!"

I drew the line at urotherapy, as it was apparently called, and it did take quite a bit of courage to stand up to my mother. She fussed and fretted but couldn't get me to administer urine into my nose.


2 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Taster. Soultrapper...

“Miss O’Shea, would you like to share your thoughts?” Mr Arche stared at Stef without blinking. “Umm…” was the only sound she managed to produce in response. For a moment, Stef had completely forgotte

Taster. WIP. Cap D'Ail

The cabbie garbles something nasal and incomprehensible, and I can only understand the curse words. In a Michelin-star kitchen, obscenities flow as freely as amens in a Catholic church. From his overa

Comments


bottom of page