Last night in the middle of the night I couldn’t breathe. I mean, I sat up, wheezed, cried in surprise and pain, wheezed again, clutched at the bedclothes, gasped, called out in panic for Dan to please get my inhaler from my purse, wheezed again, then said, very fast, please get it now. Then staggered to the bathroom, turned the shower on full hot, shut the door, then collapsed on the edge of the tub and took in the steam. And I still couldn’t breathe.
Obviously I eventually got air, because I’m writing this, but let me say, that was the fucking scariest thing ever. It’s my cold, which, apparently, settled last night into my lungs with a vengeance. I can’t take deep breaths. It feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest. I’m not coughing anymore, and I can take short breaths through my nose, but the pharmacist is still looking at me grimly and eyeballing the clock to see when the clinic is open. (Probably because he’s the one who stopped the cough by having me take a full dose of Vicodin: narcotics, apparently, kill coughs.)
So this is what I am doing right now. It’s why I’m going to miss the gym for the second time in a row this week. I think right now I’ll have a hard time lifting a coffee cup. I’m sure I’ll end up at the doctor. I’ll report back.