May

29

Cough.

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On the way back from Greece, D picked up something that had her more-or-less bedridden for a week. Fever, cough, and world-weariness. A virus, no doubt. [Aside: does anyone else think of Hugo Weaving when reading the word "virus"?] In due course, I was infected as well.

The major symptoms drifted away after a week or so, but a persistent cough remained. With that yellow goopy lung shit as a chaser. [Aside: one of my fondest memories is watching Disney employees at Epcot attempted to sweep my hacked-up pulmonary discharge on a family vacation some years ago.] After two and a half weeks of this, D convinced me to follow in her footsteps, see the doctor, and get me some antibiotics. [Note: the antibiotics aren't as stupid as they might first appear. The doctor told D she had an opportunistic bacterial infection, preying on her weakened state due to the virus, and it was the bacterial infection that was lingering.]

Of course, by the time I got the appointment, the cough, although still present, had dissipated somewhat. Become more intermittent. Which meant I was a relatively healthy-looking fellow sitting in a doctor’s office. There’s something vaguely shameful about that, isn’t there? I mean, unless you’re looking to score some recreational drugs. The doctor actually seemed to think so too. He ended up giving me a prescription for Zithromax, but suggested I should refrain. To avoid damning the human race with superbugs, like MRSA.

Now, after caving and buying the damned antibiotics, taking them as instructed, the cough, although improved, doesn’t seem to have gone away completely. Likely it’ll resolve itself in due course. But a there’s a nagging voice in my head that’s repeatedly asking, “Is there something really wrong? Like lung cancer? Maybe you should go back to the doctor.” Damned pixies.


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