I don’t know about you, but I’ve never enjoyed seeing a doctor. It doesn’t matter if it’s a dentist, a gynecologist, a general practitioner – whatever, it’s never fun. It’s not fun having things poked and prodded in my mouth or vagina. It’s also not fun having to fill out endless forms of medical history before a visit that probably won’t even last more than 15 minutes if you are lucky, especially in New York.

So now, because I guess my body just doesn’t like the Southern Hemisphere, I’ve now had the misfortune of seeing a doctor in two countries other than my own; first in Tasmania, Australia, in December 2015, to then be diagnosed with whooping cough/pertussis that I unknowingly brought with me from New York to Australia, and now, in Rotorua, New Zealand, to be told that I’ve caught some viral infection that likely won’t end or even start to get better for another ten days. A lot of people at the wedding came with sicknesses they brought from Melbourne given the bad weather there, and the kids at the wedding, all of whom were in frequent proximity of me, were sick. it’s no wonder I got sick.

Side note: the doctor here, like in Tassie, was so down to earth and sweet. She just said her name was Julie. No mention of “doctor” or last name or anything. Just Julie. So humble and so normal. She’s originally from Scotland and has been here twelve years… and never intends on going back.

My friends are joking that I’m allergic to the Southern Hemisphere. I don’t want to joke because violently coughing up massive amounts of phlegm and not having a voice to speak with really, really hurts. That is not fun.