I should be resting. But I often don't do what I should.

So, for a while, now, I've been feeling kinda cruddy. But my mantra for the past few years has been, "If it ain't cancer, stfu," so I soldier on—finished my first MFA writing class at Hamline two weeks ago (got an A—a four point OH! for my first semester)!!! Registered for a summer class—travel writing—which starts in a few weeks), got my kettlebell certification last week and started assisting at classes (hope to be teaching my own classes within a month or so), started tackling the natural disaster that is my garage, power-washed the deck, tending the lawn (all the outdoor shit that made Bob giddy with joy, makes me seethe with distain—hacking dead branches from trees, mowing/weed wapping, garage organizing—such a waste of precious time, in my book . . makes a condo look more and more inviting as the months pass). All the while I'm whacking and weeding and hacking and cleaning, I'm also sniffing, coughing, wheezing and trying to soothe a sore throat, but thinking that what I've been fighting must be allergies—nothing too debilitating, just annoying as hell. We've had a crazy-early spring, and all the floaty stuff that usually shows up in June and July is already flying in full force out here at Wrenwood, coating everything in thick layers of pollen dust, cottonwood fur and chunks of seed clusters from some of the trees, which makes for another outdoor job—blasting the debris off the deck and sidewalk with the leaf blower. How am I ever going to enjoy a gin and tonic on the deck if this "work" gets in the way . . .

So, "it" started with a sore throat and a little hint of a cough, maybe a week and a half ago, nothing that a few magical Excedrin couldn't knock out, but quickly progressed to incessant, violent coughing that I often nearly throw up (if I could stop coughing long enough to eat anything to throw up) and have even peed in my pants, just a little, a few times. (I still have a few of Otto’s diapers on hand, which I’m thinking about strappin’ on, as I convalesce at home. He’s a big kid—with a little duct tape for extra security, and as long as I don't leave home, I should be fine.) I’m chuggin' so much lemon water and lemon-honey-infused tea, I could pee my pants just thinking about it—people keep telling me honey and lemon "WORK MIRACLES!" for a cough, but so far, the only miracle is that I haven't fallen down the steps or rolled the Jeep during a coughing attack. On the plus side, my fluid intake has been optimal the past few weeks, and my skin is quite dewy, albeit translucently-ashen. “Just allergies! It’ll get better soon!” I continued to tell myself, though I continued to get worse, not better. 

I got absolutely no sleep Sat. night, but still went in and taught a kettlebells workshop Sun. a.m. (got my kettlebell instructor's certification last weekend—another story for another time), all doped up on Excedrin, Robitussin, Burt’s Bees honey-lemon cough drops and a pot of coffee,  none of which did anything except jack me up like a meth head, and I just told everyone to stand as far away as possible so I wouldn't drench them with spittle, or inadvertently launch a kettlebell in their direction. Coughing like Typhoid Mary (who was a real person, btw), I made it through the class, but because I felt like I didn't expose enough people to my Walking Death, I decided to continue my contamination rampage, and attended an event at the Landscape Arboretum with Jill and her kids, and then off to the DQ for ice cream (where I discovered, even ice cream makes me gag . . . wonder if this was written by Nostradamus as "a sign . . ."). As I was heading home, I nearly ran my car into the path of an oncoming 18-wheeler during a coughing fit, though, at this point in my life, I’m still of the mindset that it wouldn’t be a bad thing to happen, but it didn’t, and I was down to my last 2 Excedrin (which I’ve been rationing like butter during WWII, btw, as my beloved otc drug has been recalled since January, because the plant where it’s manufactured had a potential mix-up between Excedrin and some potent opiates, and at this point, I’m thinking, I sure wish I had gotten one of those bottles of mixed up Excedrin that’s not really Excedrin . . .). I knew the signs. I've been down this path before. I am pretty sure I have f'n whooping cough. Again.

So, beaten down and defeated (and a serious threat to society), I whimpered a weak uncle, and dragged my ass into Urgent Care last night. I haven’t been in a hospital-like setting since Bob’s ordeal (maybe that's been the subliminal root of my aversion to going in sooner) and started crying as soon as I was ushered into an exam room. Anytime someone came to look at me, they’d say with such concern, “Oh, you really must be feeling awful!” and I wanted to say, “You have no fucking idea,” but I just sniffed and said, “Yeah . . . “ I secretly hoped it would also help get a doc in to see me quicker, but I think all it did was scare everyone away . . . it was about all I could do to keep from racing out of the place—as I looked around the room, it looked like every other ER that Bob and I nearly lived in from October of 2009 to January of 2011, and suddenly, I was right there again, at his side, trying to comfort him during one of endless crises . . . But I needed something to at least help me sleep, or at least stop the near-vomiting, so I stayed put and played solitaire and Mahjong on my phone to keep the crying and hyperventilating at bay, until a doc finally showed up, over two hours from when I walked through the door . . . seriously, if one had a REAL disease, one could very likely DIE in these places before one is seen by a doctor . . . at one point, I'm crying a lot—snot running down my nose, eyes blurry, I can hardly breathe, when I look down at the paper ID bracelet encircling my wrist. It has my name, some other medical mumbo-jumbo, and then my age: 54. Huh?!? My tears turn to laughter as I think—okay, I feel even older than 54 right now, but seriously, way to kick a girl when she's already down . . .

So, three hours, an episode of Seinfeld (still can't bring myself to watch much tv these days), fourteen games of solitaire, eight games of Mahjong (until my phone died and all I could do was sit and cough and cry), a chest xray, cup-peeing, mucous-membrane-swabbing and lots of crying later, I’m told I have pertussis—aka, whooping cough. Yes, again. Second time in two years. I should have known. (And crazy enough, it was two year, to the date, that I had this same thing, as Bob was recovering from his second heart attack, and we were in and out of the U endless times, for various, endless crises . . .). It's a crazy disease—very serious in infants and kids, as their tender little respiratory systems have a very difficult time handling the violent coughing that accompanies the disease. But the vaccine for it expires after about 10 years, and many people simply haven't gotten boosters after high school, hence the increase in occurrences in adults. I need to talk to my primary doc about getting a booster, as it's obvious I'm pretty susceptible to this . Oh wait, I have to find a new primary doc, first, as I haven't been to a doctor since that last whooping cough ordeal. . . ). 


I was given Rx’s for oxycodone, a bronchial inhaler and a round of antibiotics, and the sweet nurse who attended me also gave me a coffee cup bearing the clinic’s logo, brimming with all kinds of goodies (because they felt bad I had to wait so long and was so sick)—a pen, pad of post-it notes, little bottles of hand sanitizer, a refrigerator magnet (all with the clinic’s name/number, of course) AND, the BEST PART {{{{{ DRUM ROLL }}}}} not one, but TWO Target gift cards, both worth five smackeroos, all because they felt so sorry for me! I HEART BEING SICK!!!!!!!!!!! Playing the Widow Card always pays off in huge dividends . . . I really need to milk it more. . . .


And today, I woke up do discover I am now also on the rag, have some awesome cramps going on and am trying my fiercest to keep my tampon from blasting right out of me like a ballistic missile from the sheer power of my coughing jags, which forces me to perform intense Kegel exercises all day. So all-in-all, really, it’s a bonus . . . 

Everything happens for a reason, peeps. Don’t you forget it. 


(p.s. and this is what happens when narcotics and writing mix in my brain. When I'm all better again, I may regret this . . .)