Finally went to see someone of the medical persuasion yesterday, this after my fifth day of coughing my lungs out. It got so bad the night before that I got kicked out of bed because, during moments when I wasn’t coughing and was lucky enough to fall asleep, my breathing was causing me to snore so loudly my partner couldn’t stand it anymore. I was sympathetic to his plight though on some level I thought it could have been handled better – till now I still don’t know how to process what happened, or maybe I refuse to because it wouldn’t make any difference. I spent the rest of the night on my ever-reliable sofa.
In any case, I was sure my condition was bacterial and that I’d be getting a prescription for antibiotics once I left.
We got there before noon, and left after less than two hours. Not too bad, I thought. I still remember ruining my ankle in DC and rushing to GWU emergency, only to be let out after four hours of waiting. There’s world-class service for you.
Surprisingly, no antibiotics for me this time, which meant the prognosis was better than I thought. Ice cream and paracetamol will be on the menu the next several days, along with an extra-special dietary supplement. I sure do hope the next doctor I see isn’t from Betty Ford.