|Short Stuff helped out at our rescue's fundraiser yesterday. She also ate enough cupcakes to throw a mastodon into sugar shock.|
The doctor hooked me up to a machine meant to measure the nitric oxide in my lungs. I had to breathe into an apparatus while trying to follow a cartoon on the screen. On the monitor was a girl in a boat on the water (no kaleidoscope eyes, in case you wondered) and the objective was to blow the sailboat across the water at a steady pace. First I had to inhale, which caused the cartoon sun to rise in the cartoon sky, then I had to exhale to maneuver the boat. It was like a video game except, you know, not even remotely fun. Anyway, I guess a normal reading is something like 20 and I was at 55. What this tells the doctor, in short, is that there's a lot of shit going on in my lungs. He sent me home with a couple different inhalers (plus a prescription for Zyrtec) and I'm supposed to call on Monday if I'm still coughing.
I'm still coughing. I think I've worn out my welcome in a few different places. When I left work on Friday, I said to my cubicle neighbors, "my cough and I are leaving now" and a few of them broke out in applause. Co-workers send me IMs throughout the day with questions like, "Are you SURE I can't give you some cough syrup or something?" If my desk weren't attached to all the others, I'm pretty sure they would've relocated me downstairs to Storage B* by now. I went to yoga on Tuesday and all but left a lung on the mat. Nothing breaks up the zen like a woman trying to expel all of her internal organs - through her mouth. By candlelight, no less! I've also coughed my way through the library, Target, and church. I'm spreading the joy far and wide.
Well, I'll sign off now, as I feel another round of convulsive hacking coming on. I may have to take some Nyquil later. That stuff is potent, though, eh? You can't cough when you're fully unconscious.
|Baked goods named after my brown son (we have a bake sale as part of our fundraiser)|
*Random "Office Space" reference - if you missed it, you and I are no longer friends. I'm sorry. And, I believe you have my stapler.