Hardly anybody’s talking about it—at least in the news, The Cough. Everybody seems to know someone who has had it, or now has it, since it lasts for weeks and months. If I meet someone clearing his or her throat, I ask, “Do you have it?” They immediately know what I am talking about. Then we compare symptoms and commiserate.
Many say it lasts three weeks, or three months.
Mine is going on the fourth week. At the third week I went to my doctor and he said it was bronchitis—viral not bacterial, so no antibiotics, but if it persists we need an x-ray in case it turns into pneumonia. (Maybe that’s curable!) For now, just things to “treat the symptoms, so you can live with it while it runs its course.” It's running alright, even with cough syrup with codeine, an inhaler, and acetaminaphen for pain (I cant’ use high doses of aspirin.) These are my not-so-trusty companions on the uncharted journey through the clogged catacombs of my lungs.
I am apparently not contagious, but I got this from somebody. (And, no, I did not sneak off to the Playboy mansion, where cases somewhat like mine have bloomed.)
I’ve had the flu shot against the big bad flu, but this is a “common” cold virus that circulates by contact—doorknobs, handshakes, soul kisses—or perhaps a stowaway in my Super Bowl dip.
It started out slow, a little trickle the first week then a cascade and then a Niagara—of mucus. (That’s the most neutral word I have for it.) Mornings have a pale green cast despite the lovely sunrise.
But that’s nothing compared to the wracking pain the Cough has inflicted on my mid back muscles, and on my sciatic nerve down my left haunch. I feel invaded by a malign power. What does this alien want? I’ve already conceded my soul, my first born (but not the grandchild), and some mutual funds in my 401k (shssh—not worth very much now.) Nothing makes the invader relent.
I can recommend cough drops with a high menthol content, hot tea, bed rest, but be careful when you either get up or lie down—that jiggles the mucus like a bug on a gooey spider web and stimulates another assault. You never know when it will end.
Last night I was carrying a tall glass of seltzer water with ice and a freshly squeezed orange half and I was attacked mercilessly so that I dropped the glass on the bedroom floor and the ice went under a dresser. I called out plaintively to my wife, something of a defeat and an acknowledgment of my helplessness—getting down on all fours is a very vulnerable position: the Cough loves it.
This soon becomes a family affair—my wife claims she sleeps through my convulsive bouts during the night, but she does report on them. So I sleep in the extra bedroom and get up through the night more frequently than normal. “The Sick Room” is something of a refuge since I can cough out my anguish at full volume and wheeze and hack and gurgle myself into oblivion without someone having to hear it. That’s a concern. After you’ve had this a while and you’re still coughing, even loving dear ones hint you should just “stop it.” It does feel that you’re carrying on a bit, perhaps even milking it for sympathy or vying for a coughing Grammy. It will make Valentine’s Day this year a celebration of the Lung rather than the Heart.
Folks with all sorts of chronic conditions have to endure much worse. You have my full sympathy, sincere wishes for relief from pain, and hope for your recovery.
I have had a few other memorable diseases over my lifetime, but this one, not fatal nor serious nor ultimately scary will stay with me. Living with this minor affliction over a long period of time focuses the mind on the fundamental value of simply being well. Perhaps the Cough wanted me to concede this truth from the start. Cough, I get it.
