Went to the after-hours clinic this evening, because I've been just short of coughing up a lung all week. And I thought that was hyperbole until I got there and the doctor listened to my chest. A nebulizing treatment, and five medications later, I escaped with my life, but just barely. Apparently one is supposed to be able to take deep breaths without feeling like there's a corset cinching one's ribcage. Who knew? We take this breathing stuff so much for granted, don't we? It's only when we can't do it easily that we realize what a pleasure it actually is. The daily, ordinary pleasure of breathing in and out. Ah, sweetness.
I have friends--and a mother--who have struggled repeatedly over the years with bronchial problems. Not me. So I didn't recognize it when it hit me. It's just a cough, I thought. People get coughs. Don't they? But not coughs that make your chest close up tighter than Fort Knox, complete with security guards. As long as I don't cough I do okay. Or talk. Or breathe deeply. So other than that, I'm good to go.
Except that I'm not going anywhere. Not tomorrow or the next day. Not if I don't want to find myself landed in the hospital--which I don't, thank you very much. I haven't been sleeping here, but I know this--it's better sleep than I'd get in the hospital!
Yep, at least bronchitis, and maybe walking pneumonia (whatever the difference is). In any case, I'm walking around with it, alright, but I probably won't be posting for the next few days. It wears me out.
P.S. Just glanced down and realized why the doctor had serious concerns about me--I'm wearing two different color of Crocs. Yep, she really must be sick.