Well, I’m alive. Although I have spent the last week mostly wishing someone would relieve me of that burden and put me out of my misery.
It started with what I thought was a stitch in my side. Like normal people get from running. It usually passes after a few minutes. I figured it was just the fat lady smoker who swills coffee and diet soda version of the same. Only it didn’t pass. It got successively worse over the course of a week.
After over an entire week of being borderline bedridden with sporadic fevers, a wracking cough that reduced me to tears, the energy level of a sedated slug, and the uncanny ability to lose the capacity for breathing before reaching the end of the hall, I finally decided Monday morning that I’d had enough.
T was somewhat relieved. I think being afraid that the ever growing pile of dirty dishware in the sink was going to either breed wildlife or result in an invasion by the EPA, or FEMA, or whomever the heck condemns your home when the dish fairy, laundry fairy, and meals and general care fairy can’t function on the most basic of levels for entire week was a driving factor. Possibly the horror of having to exist on takeout and whatever can be pan fried, grilled or blackened, and (GASP!) having to match his own socks helped too. At any rate, after having to stop halfway across the pasture with tears rolling down my face and plead with one of the horses to allow me to lean on her long enough to catch my breath drove me over the edge and I came to the conclusion that an ER trip was in order.
I decided they would either break the news I was going to croak, or help me do so. Or at least let me know the reason why I felt like it was imminent and necessary. I had serious visions of small creatures inside my chest and lungs with little sharp pointed objects stabbing the bejesus out of my innards every time I tried to draw a breath. I walked in with the reasonable fear that a chest tube was in my future. I’ve had that joyous rodeo once in my lifetime, and I really don’t care to enjoy it again.
Three hours and a series of chest x-rays later, my doctor (why do I always get the one who looks like a 13 year old Doogie Howser?) swept back into the room with his nurse-y entourage to tell me I’ve developed… Pleurisy. What?
I have managed to get an archaic condition that, Monday, I was lulled into believing had gone the way of, say, rickets…scurvy…polio…Only me. Sigh. Scurvy is likely next, since the last citrus I ingested was probably in a margarita and I’ve been alcohol free for the better part of a year.
You see, pleurisy, if you’ve never shared the experience, is what happens when foolish women (or men) get a cold, and continue to work themselves like dogs. Then it descends into bronchitis, and she keeps on truckin’. Then it reaches the edge of pneumonia. The lining of the lungs becomes so irritated and inflamed in spots that it becomes like sandpaper and causes sharp, shooting pains in the chest every time you attempt silly things like movement, or breathing. You want to punch people in the face if they successfully manage to make you laugh. Coughing fits will turn you into a quivering puddle of tears on the bathroom floor while you beg for someone to just.come.kill.me.now.
So, the verdict is in. I’m not going to die and they’re not going to mercy murder me. I’m sent home by Doogie with a pile of prescriptions including steroids, anti-imflammatories, painkillers, and some fancy new cough suppressant “pearls” designed to disable the cough reflex nearly entirely. And strict instructions to rest and set a follow up appointment with my regular Doc that I will likely ignore. It’s spring, I’m now wayyyy behind, and if these do the trick I’ll be too busy playing catch up with more than this blog.
I am going to try and get a post up today to catch up on all the happenings during my week of forced silence. Hope all is well with everyone and spring has finally arrived.