So much for catching up on sleep — last night was the worst I’ve had in weeks, with the usual dystonia accompanied by the return of my cough, which had mostly disappeared not long after I last complained about it.* My tossing and turning and sitting up (in futile attempts to facilitate deeper breathing or a stronger cough) woke up Crankenstein, who was concerned by my shortness of breath and inability to discern what was going on with my chest.
“What’s wrong?” she sleepily murmured, and I wasn’t sure: was there crackling on the left side of my chest or was the odd sensation I sporadically felt — occasionally accompanied by a faint noise — due to swallowing difficulties after sipping water? My exhaustion and rigidity made it hard to tell, so I rummaged through my nightstand drawer for the pulse oximeter to verify everything was normal, then took another levodopa and tried to fall back asleep.
Once I was up and about in the morning, there was no coughing or chest weirdness. If either returns tonight, I’ll call the PCP as soon as the office opens tomorrow. With how many appointments I’ve had recently, and how many more are coming up in August and September, I’d rather not throw in another, especially if the doctor might shrug and chalk it up to dysphagia. At the same time, it would be dangerously irresponsible not to rule out pneumonia when I’m still coughing a month after Covid.
Rereading this, it’s obvious I should call in the morning regardless. Otherwise, if I let it go and start coughing again this weekend, Crankenstein might strap me to the roof of her car (like the Griswolds’ Christmas tree or Mitt Romney’s ailing dog) and frog-march me into an exam room herself. That would tie up one stubborn loose end, and here I’ll tie up a few others. A friend and reader recently asked if my dad’s leg was better and the answer is yes, he finished his antibiotics the second time around and his leg slowly healed. The last time he sent me a picture, it looked almost good as new.
The same friend wanted to know what’s been going on with Tom and the answer is I’m not entirely sure: I’m currently taking a ‘not my monkeys, not my circus’ approach to her drama. I think her recent comic book villain turn is fueled largely by social embarrassment, which means her priorities are still out of whack. She doesn’t want advice from anyone right now, least of all me, but if she called tomorrow I’d listen to her tale of woe and tell her this: maturity isn’t about your ability to throw a punch, it’s about your ability to take one.**
* Fortunately, Botox is just around the corner.
** Sometimes the two intersect and you knock yourself out. The goal should be to learn from it, otherwise it’ll keep happening and you might have to take out a restraining order against yourself.