Sticking my head up for just a second

I've had better weeks. Then again, I've had worse.

I’ve been a tad quiet. I must apologize…I did not mean to worry anyone. I’ve just been as sick as dog ever since the Eric Brace/Thomm Jutz show.

That glorious show, and then….

The coughing.

The hacking.

The muscles in your stomach you strained coughing.

The something or other in my back that is displeased by these carryings on.

The cough drop mania.

None of it is pretty.

“in the morning there was nothing there but wrinkled white sheets and cough drop wrappers.”

Here’s my latest detailing of being a woman of a certain age and appearance in our medical system:

I went to Convenient Care the end of last week. Those things are always hit or miss. I got in pretty quickly and the tech was kind. I waited some more and she rushed in checked my blood oxygen /respiration levels again, said they looked better and scurried off. The doctor came in and said he was trying to figure out why my first blood levels/respiration were so bad. I just blinked at him because, you know…that’s his job, not mine. I told him I had a very bad coughing fit in the car before we came in but other than that I had no idea. He seemed a tad frustrated and finally burst out, “Do you have anxiety?” I just kind of stared at him confused. I somewhat hesitantly said, “Well, I’m not anxious about this appointment….” Then he said, “See, there’s this thing called White Coat Syndrome….” I just burst out laughing and explained we saw doctors all the time and that seemed to be the end of figuring out my readings. He prescribed me a bunch of shit. Prescribed Flonase even though I told him I already took it. Whatever. I have continued to feel absolutely horrid and the thought of sleeping more than an hour without being jolted awake by vicious coughing seems like a sweet, sweet dream. I don’t know whether to go back or not tomorrow.

We’ve had to call all the big dogs in for assistance: the Rod Picott coffee mug and Joe the shillelagh respectively. Even my childhood doctor’s recommendation of hot milk and honey. To no avail.

I talked to Owen on the phone the other day and he couldn’t get over how terrible I sounded. I told him I’d been really sick, that in the last week I hadn’t read a book, either fiction or nonfiction. “OMG, MOM,” he yelped. Then I added, “and I don’t mean read a whole book, I mean I haven’t read ANYTHING in a book.” “OMG, MOM. ARE YOU OK?”

I do love my boys.

Back soon, I promise.

Onward.

Love,
Cynthia