Quackery.

Ovo je istinita prića iz mog djetinjstva koju djelim s vama

KAD IMAŠ SEDAM godina, živiš na selu i imaš najboljeg druga, zapravo i ne znaš kad si bolestan. Jednostavno, igraš se s njim u pijesku, sve dok se ne pojavi tvoja baka, s tankom šipkom u ruci, i ljutito se prodere da moraš ići kući. A drug zna zašto te baka zove i zlurado se nasmiješi. Moraš kući da primiš injekciju, jer si bolestan. Ne znaš ni od čega, ni zašto, ali eto, moraš je primiti kao kaznu i poniženje.

A injekciju je davao Bole Tako ime mi ostalo u sječanju.. Nije bio ni doktor, ni bolničar, već nešto između ili možda oboje. Mi djeca smo ga, dok se vozio sa velikom torbom na razdrndanom biciklu, gledali kao dežurnog izvršioca svih roditeljskih presuda zbog naših grijeha i kad bismo ga vidjeli na putu, bježali na sve strane.

Mnogo kasnije, kad sam odrastao, saznao sam istinu o Boletu. U stvari, imao je malo veze s medicinom. U ratu je, kažu, nosio ranjenike i skupljao mrtve. To mu je bila preporuka da ga na iste poslove prime u bolnicu. Kako je nedostajalo i doktora i bolničara, u selu je začas napredovao do tog međuzanimanja. Pogotovo kad je kao dokaz sa posla donio bijeli mantil i počeo da ga oblači kad bi ga seljani pitali za neki savjet. Začas su mu dali status seoskog doktora .

Kad me baba uvukla u kuhinju. Iako je bilo ljeto, peč je bila dobro naložena, a zrak vruč, ustajao i pun smrada.

Trebalo je da to bude peta i posljedna Boletova injekcija meni zbog rane na nozi nastala od ujeda psa nehotice u igri i  da to što prije zacjeli kako nebi dobio tetanus.

Sve sam već znao. Prvo bi iz masne torbe prepune ljekova za ljude izvadio sjajnu metalnu kutiju u kojoj se nalazila velika staklena šprica i nekoliko igala. Baba je nasula vode u nju,ubacila največe drvo u šporet i stavila kutiju na platu. Trebalo je bar pola sata da voda prokuha.

Dok bi babinom krpom za suđe uzimao vrelu metalnu kutiju upitao bi  „A gdje je mali?“

Počinjala je predstava. Svi bi se prema meni okrenuli sa sažaljenjem, a najmanje dvojica najbližih susjeda me ščepala, valjda da ne pobjegnem. Nakon toga dok sam se koprcao, položili na stomak i svukli mi hlače. Zatim bi se svi ćutke okrenuli prema Boletu.

On obukao svoj prljavi bijeli mantil, iz torbe izvadio flašicu penicilina i ampulu destilirane vode. Uzeo  iz torbe pincetu, njom uhvatio veliku staklenu špricu, na nju natakao iglu koju je koristio otkako se imenovao za doktora.

Nakon toga uzeo malu turpiju, zarezao ampulu, izdigao je do očiju i udario noktom, kao da nekome udara „klempu“. Vrh se poslušno i pravilno odlomio. Svi prisutni, pa i ja u svojstvu žrtve, posmatrali smo taj čudni obred bez daha. Uvukao zatim iglu u ampulu, usisao vodu u špricu, potom uzeo flašicu penicilina i kroz gumeni čep ubrizgao vodu u nju. Radio je to polako i svečano, praćen desetinom očiju. Zatim izvukao iglu, uzeo bočicu sa penicilinom u ruku i počeo energično da mućka trzajući se cijelim tijelom. onda uze drugu iglu, ponovo je kroz čep ubode u bočicu penicilina i uvuče sadržaj u špricu. Od straha sam gledao samo iglu. Nakon toga je stavio laktove na stol, uzeo špricu u jednu ruku, iglu okrenuo prema plafonu iznad glava prisutnih i kratko prsnuo iz igle praveći vodoskok. Bio je to rasplet, vrhunac, Boletovog doktorskog rada, nakon toga polako se dižući, svečano izgovori: „Drž’te ga!“

Odmah me bar šest ruku pritisnulo na krevetu. Bole je komad vate zamočio u svoju čašu rakije i natrljao mjesto budućeg uboda. Počeo sam plakati na sav glas, ne samo zato što sam osjetio jaku bol i pečenje u stražnjici već više zato što me vrijeđalo to poniženje, osjećaj da si mal i bespomoćan u nerazumljivom svijetu odraslih i pred Boletovom kaznom.

Bol je trajala cijelu vječnost, a zatim se svi iznenada okrenuli od mene, kao da nikad nisam ni postojao. Sam, u sjeni nečijih leđa, šmrcajući navukao sam hlače. Zatim kriomice zgrabio bočicu na kojoj je pisalo penicilin i šepajući, ali sa osmijehom koji se nazirao kroz suze, krenuo napolje ka drugu.

Dobiću za nju tri klikera.

This is a true story from my childhood that I share with you

WHEN YOU ARE SEVEN, you live in the countryside and you have a best friend, you don't really know when you're sick. Simply, you play with him in the sand, until your grandmother shows up, with a thin rod in her hand, and she angrily snaps that you have to go home. And the friend knows why grandma calls you and smiles mischievously. You have to get an injection at home because you're sick. You don't know why or why, but you have to accept it as punishment and humiliation.

And the injection was given by Bole. That's the name I remember .. He was neither a doctor nor a nurse, but something in between or maybe both. We children, while riding with a big bag on a ragged bicycle, watched him as the duty executor of all parental judgments for our sins, and when we saw him on the road, we fled in all directions.

Much later, when I was growing up, I learned the truth about Bolet. In fact, it had little to do with medicine. During the war, they say, he carried the wounded and collected the dead. It was his recommendation to be admitted to the hospital for the same jobs. As there was a lack of doctors and nurses, he immediately progressed to that intermediate occupation in the village. Especially when he brought a white coat as proof from work and started wearing it when the villagers asked him for some advice. They immediately gave him the status of a village doctor.

When Grandma dragged me into the kitchen. Even though it was summer, the stove was well stocked and the air was hot, stale and full of stench.

It was supposed to be Bolet's fifth and final injection to me because of a wound on my leg caused by a dog bite inadvertently in the game, and to heal it as soon as possible so that I wouldn't get tetanus.

I already knew everything. First, he would take a shiny metal box containing a large glass syringe and a few needles out of a greasy bag full of medicines for people. Baba poured water into it, put the biggest tree in the stove and put the box on the plate. It took at least half an hour for the water to boil.

As he would take a hot metal box with his grandmother's dishcloth, he would ask, "And where is the little one?"

The show began. Everyone would turn to me with pity, and at least two of my closest neighbors grabbed me, I guess not to run away. After that while I was squirming, they laid me on my stomach and took off my pants. Then everyone would silently turn to Bolet.

He put on his dirty white coat, took a bottle of penicillin and an ampoule of distilled water from his bag. He took tweezers from his bag, grabbed a large glass syringe with it, put a needle on it, which he had used since he was appointed a doctor.

After that, he took a small file, cut an ampoule, raised it to his eyes and hit it with his fingernail, as if hitting someone with a "clamp". The top is obediently and properly broken off. Everyone present, including me as a victim, watched this strange ritual without breath. He then inserted the needle into the ampoule, sucked the water into the syringe, then took a bottle of penicillin and injected water into it through a rubber stopper. He did it slowly and solemnly, followed by a dozen eyes. Then he pulled out a needle, took a bottle of penicillin in his hand and began to shake vigorously, twitching his whole body. then he took another needle, stabbed it again through the cap into a bottle of penicillin and drew the contents into the syringe. Out of fear, I just looked at the needle. He then placed his elbows on the table, took the syringe in one hand, turned the needle towards the ceiling above the heads of those present and briefly burst from the needle making a fountain. It was the culmination, the culmination, of Bolet's doctoral dissertation, after which, slowly rising, he solemnly uttered: "Hold him!"

At least six hands immediately pressed me to the bed. Bole dipped a piece of cotton wool into his glass of brandy and rubbed the site of the future sting. I started crying out loud, not only because I felt severe pain and burning in my buttocks but more because I was insulted by that humiliation, the feeling of being small and helpless in the incomprehensible world of adults and facing Bolet’s punishment.

The pain lasted an eternity, and then everyone suddenly turned away from me, as if I had never even existed. Alone, in the shadow of someone's back, I sniffed and pulled on my pants. Then he secretly grabbed a bottle with penicillin written on it and limped, but with a smile that was visible through tears, he went outside towards the other.

I'll get three marbles for her.