I was supposed to go get some x-rays for my back today, but I couldn’t make it to NYU Medical. The farthest I could go was my sofa, which I unfolded and spread with my blankets and pillows.
Whatever allergies I thought I had have morphed into some sort of heavy duty head cold. My head is ringing and my throat is stingy. My voice has taken on the timbre of an emphysema patient. I usually need to sleep in dead silence with some white noise. Today I passed out for four hours with e! on. I don’t even like e! — it kills my brain cells.
Tonight I am struggling to breathe. I have a trusty rescue inhaler, left over from my childhood days of asthma, but every puff gives me tremors. Now I know what I’ll feel like when I’m 90. My hands are shaky and my heart is pumping so hard I’m scared. But there’s nothing to do. It’s late-night. It’s a bad cold and some plain old coronary palpitations. The worst part is, I am so hopped up on cold pills I know I can’t take the pain killers for my back. And every time I cough, guess what takes a beating?
So I complain a lot, sorry. But I’m miserable. And I received an email today that broke my heart. I take back the worst part. The worst part is crying when you’re this sick, big home-alone sobs, when your face is puffy and you’re choking on every breath. There. That’s the worst part.