“Do you have any plans for the weekend?”
This was what my doctor asked me that recent Friday afternoon, my second trip to see him for a nagging cough. I knew he wasn’t asking to be polite. I knew what was coming.
A couple of weeks earlier, I had developed a mild cold. It lasted only a couple of days, but the cough lingered. And lingered. And lingered. The first trip to the doctor resulted in some steroids and an inhaler.
They didn’t work, and I had coughed so much that my body was completely sore.
So here I am back at the doctor for the second time in a week. And he wants to know what I have planned for the weekend.
“Well, I have tickets to see Jerry Seinfeld in concert in Athens tonight,” I told the doctor. “And I’m supposed to go back to Athens for Georgia gymnastics meet on Saturday afternoon, then I’m meeting some friends for dinner. And on Sunday, I’m supposed to meet some friends for brunch.”
“Yeah, none of that is going to happen,” the doctor replied.
I don’t like being sick. I don’t like going to the doctor I’m a lousy patient. I don’t have the time or interest to rest, drink fluids and all that other stuff you’re supposed to do when you’re sick. I’m a busy person. I don’t have time to be sick.
But by the time I make the second trip to the doctor, I’ve been sick for the better part of two weeks, probably longer than I’ve ever been sick before.
The doctor said I had something called acute asthmatic bronchitis.
“People your age sometimes develop this condition after having a cold,” he said.
People my age?
Doctors can get away with making cracks like that because their patients are sick and weak. If I had felt better, for instance, I might have shown him how people my age beat him with a penny loafer.
Anyway, three shots later, I was out the door with instructions to take five different prescription drugs and two over-the-counter drugs – and to spend about 48 hours in bed resting.
The bed rest part worried me. I hated to cancel all my plans for the weekend. Plus the weather was supposed to be nice. What if I wanted to take Milly, the liver and white springer spaniel, to the park?
But I soon discovered the doctor has a secret weapon to keep me in bed. It’s called a narcotic. I had to take it five times a day, every four hours.
It was a good narcotic. Really good. It made me sleep like a baby. I woke up every three hours wanting more.
The other drugs were pretty good, too, but I now understand the frustration that people who are on a lot of prescription drugs feel. Some of my drugs had to be taken with food. Others had to be taken on an empty stomach. Some had to be taken even four hours. Other every six. I had to draw up a chart to make certain I was taking the medicine when I was supposed to.
Thanks to the miracle of prescription drugs, I was feeling better in just a few days.
But now almost a month later, the nagging cough and the congestion haven’t completely cleared up. I still have long coughing jags. And I’ve blown so much stuff out of nose that there can’t possibly be anything left in my head.
Hopefully, another couple of days will clear everything up. That or more drugs.
