I have been told I have a barky cough. It has been rudely compared to that of seals. I blame this on the tubing in my body, which was installed in the wrong size. It’s embarrassing when my family doctor rolls her eyes at the prospect of drawing blood, sighs greatly, and then says, “Okay, I’ll go find the child-size syringe.” We both slap away at my arm and then, after poking around for a while, hoot with success together when she finds a gusher. Skinny tubing.
When my paediatrician was away and I had one of my tri-annual bouts of bronchitis, the new guy listened to my whooping and bubbling and said “How much do you smoke?” It was such a stupid question that I tossed back a casual “Oh, a pack or two a day.” The man had clearly no ability to recognize witty sarcasm and said, “Really?” Understanding his rhetorical limitations, I said “I don’t smoke” in as emphatic a manner as can be conveyed despite laryngitis. He sent my mother from the room and asked again. Same answer. This time he called Mom in and sent me out. Same answer. We left in a huff. I was mortally wounded and refused to return until my dear Dr. McLandress had returned. So you know I have suffered.
When, despite every effort on Jon’s part to contain his virus last week (which included my being banished from the bedroom), I caught it anyway, Theodore probably being the vector (because he had been allowed to stay!). All painting progress stopped together. I returned to my childhood mode of steam tents, long bed stays and “horse collars” (only just this week did I realize that there should be an “a”). Damned homonyms.
As usual, the barking is at its worst at night and one does not of course recover without sleep. Then, after a prolonged coughing/sneezing bout two nights ago, an epiphany: if coughing is triggered by a so-called “post-nasal drip,” then maybe gravity could be defeated by sleeping on my stomach?? Tried it and even if it was magical thinking , I had the first decent sleep in a week (you heard it here first). Of course, the reason I don’t normally sleep on my face is lack of breathing and the obvious disadvantage of being female….. Anyway, I struggled last night to make this work and finally aligned myself along the edge and off to sleep I went. Dreaming has been technicolour and particularly exciting lately (lots of espionage) and I was just trying to grab a rogue spy bus which was escaping through a window when I apparently dove off the bed. Unfortunately my perfectly-executed rotational peregrine dive landed me on a hard plastic waste-paper basket which literally gouged the back of my head. I felt around, was puzzled by the presence of a swelling furrow, but determined it wasn’t bleeding too badly so channeled Scarlet O’Hara and decided to worry about it tomorrow.
It’s tomorrow and while I am still furrowed, it is under my hair rather than on my brow, so one can’t expect much sympathy. Mind you, I won’t need plastic surgery either. And I was completely relaxed so that was good. And it might even take a row of green onions in the spring. Glass half full!!
Missing paint group AGAIN. The Painter hopes to return next week. Failing that, I make no promises about maintaining a positive outlook. Watch out, Glass!
P.S. By now after, almost five years together, you are probably wondering if I exaggerate. I honestly wish I had to.
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