It has arrived once again — my early summer bronchitis event.
Every year it’s a little different, and as the years march along I’m noticing the symptoms are generally more severe. This time it began with that annoying scratchy throat, which lasted about four days. I should have twigged to the coming onslaught then, but naively thought this might just peter out, since it seemed to be taking so long. (The other option was that this was going to be worse than usual but I’m generally a rosy-view kind of woman.)
When the throat thingy turned ugly on the fifth day, with icky-looking white spots as far up and down as I could see and pain that made we weep every time I swallowed, I headed off to the doc.
Being a health Pollyanna, I figured a sore throat—even a murderously painful one—was a fairly light price to pay the annual cootie god, so I made peace with a strep diagnosis and headed home with a five-day course of antibiotics.
That’s when the real trouble began, though I don’t think the drugs were at fault. Within twenty-four hours I was viewing the world through a fever-tunnel and thinking I might need a plumber to clean out my pipes. What a racket simple breathing can make.
So here I am in bed, two days further down the road, still snorting and sniffling and sneezing and barking like a very sick seal. Most unsavory, even from my perspective.
On the other hand …
While laying here feeling sorry for myself, I heard the tentative crow of a rooster—a little boy working his way to manhood in the chicken world. I think the hens weren’t too impressed by his teenaged squawking, but I was. I can hardly wait until he gets serious about this crowing business.
You go, little guy! Maybe it’ll actually get me out of bed tomorrow.