Just Breathe

So, I was back in the hospital again.

For those who want to update their tally sheets, that's four times just this month--two for the ER, two for tests. This time was ER.

It wasn't my stomach; it was my lungs. They've always been treacherous too, so they moved in to take advantage of my devastation. Last week, I got what I thought--hoped--was a cold, but then, of course, it went all death flu, drowning me in more than my body weight of phlegm, beating my face with a hammer, etc. So, more weeks of not sleeping, more pounds lost, more excruciating pain, etc.

And then, since Asthma and URIs are such good buddies, *of course* I went lung infection. My stomach felt neglected too. Sometimes I'd get coughing so hard I'd throw up. Mostly though, I was coughing so hard I couldn't stop and get any air and ended up collapsing on the floor.

I was totally going to give up and see my doctor. Yes! And then we started coughing up blood. Yes! Just like a consumptive, there I was hacking up red into a white tissue.

It's horrifying when you picture it; it's worse when it's right there in your hand.

Anyway, the lungs did not want to wait for my doctor's office hours, they went all drama queen and just, you know, stopped. So, away to the ER. If I only had the air to cry...

It just won't stop, will it?

Although, it's funny, I get to the ER, and they know I'm having a severe asthma attack--bats are flying into walls because of agony of my wheeze--and they made me wait over an hour for treatment. The doctor was 'on his rounds'. I was the lone patient in the lobby, in woozy terror and desperately sucking over and over on the salbutamol I carry with me.

The good news is that salbutamol is what they give you for a severe attack. The ER can just give a crapload more of it, and much faster. If you know, anyone cares to actually work.

The spousal unit was particularly enraged that two nurses spent the whole time a couple feet away, leaning against the counter, chatting and laughing. The SU, who still believes in, like, the fundamental decency of all people, kept asking them to please do something, but they would only reply 'the doctor is on his rounds'.

Maybe he was missing the secret code phrase. If he replied, 'the skittish clam wears jelly shoes', maybe I'd have gotten rushed right in.

Anyway, eventually, about four hours later, I got a ventilator and some meds, which made me vomit blood again, so I got *other* meds.

I still feel awful. Breathing bad, sleep impossible, cough continues. But I haven't seen blood or vomit yet today, so...

Wait, cat vomit, I did see cat vomit. But that's kind of a step up really.