FEELING BETTER
I felt a cold creeping up my nose with the intensity of an invader from another planet. Tiny and unseen, monsters marched into every sinus cavity planting flags of triumph. Wanting to take back my territory, I walked the aisles of the nearest drug store. Tylenol Extra Strength, Claritin Tablets, and alcohol free Robitussin cough suppressant. I was armed and ready to play doctor. After a week of sniffing, snorting, blowing, and coughing hard enough to loosen my toe nails, I expected my formula to have me dancing like Ginger Rogers any moment.
By day three of my new self-diagnosis, I had ribs hurting like I had been squeezed by a three- hundred-pound gorilla. Surely a sign I was getting better from the intensity of coughing hard enough to feel like my head would pop and roll off the couch with the speed of a bowling ball. After several more days, reaching into an empty box of Kleenex was a new sign of progress; my red nose would certainly be clean as a whistle after opening a fresh box of tissue. Getting too hot, blankets were flung off my body with the wild surrender of an over-dressed stripper. I cured chills by wearing several pairs of heavy socks. Thick stockings cuddled my toes into a soothing snuggle, giving me Teddy Bear feet.
It was when I walked out to get the newspaper that I decided I should remain a retired bus driver and not add doctor to my title. Walking back toward the house, I was attacked by icy chills, the kind I can imagine forming icicles with every breath at the North Pole. I stood frozen, hands shaking the newspaper like Rosy the Riveter. I threw in the towel in my bout with the flu and made an appointment with professionals.
The doctor listened to my lungs, telling me I had a viral infection, prescribing new medicines. He advised me if I had any problems in the next few days to call immediately for another appointment. New miracle drugs, chicken noodle soup, and clicking the remote to a variety of channels—I was looking at a cozy future. Until midnight the second day. I woke up gasping for air. My wind pipe was closing with the intensity of a slammed door. I couldn’t inhale or exhale. I pumped and sucked on my inhaler, opening my lungs slowly like a sneaky visitor to a haunted house. I sat on the couch stunned, taking each breath deeper, hearing my heart pound in my ears, signaling “all is getting clear.” Relief. Breathe in. Breathe out.
I called first thing in the morning. The doctor had the day off. A new doctor, earliest appointment at ten o’clock. An x-ray. New diagnosis, pneumonia, and more medicine. Oh, yes, how often do you use your inhaler? I proudly let the doctor know I tried not to use it too much so I could build up strength in my lungs. WRONG. I was told to use it when I need it. Period. More proof my self-doctoring skills need to be returned to the cave where I found my information.
That night, I had a fitful dream: Red burgundy velvet curtains. A crowd of people roaming a theater for a seat. Loved ones who have died standing close, other faces a blur but familiar. I asked, “What is happening?” Someone said, “It’s not your time. We’re going to see a preview of your life.” I awoke before the curtain rose.
April Ryan is a retired Seattle bus driver who will not be seeing patients or much patience in the near future…but she’s feeling better!
SHARING STORIES is a weekly column for and about the 50 plus crowd living in the Puget Sound region. Send your stories and photos to ariele@comcast.net. Tell local or personal stories; discuss concerns around aging and other issues; share solutions, good luck, and reasons to celebrate; poems are fine too. Pieces may be edited or excerpted. We reserve the right to select among pieces. Photos are always a plus and a one-sentence bio is requested (where you live, maybe age or career, retired status, etc.).
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