Bells, whistles needed

I woke up sweating again this morning. I had dreams, too. I am not usually aware of dreams.

Phoned my symptoms into the nurse yesterday. Then lay down. About an hour later, the nurse calls me to come in -- now. So I throw on clothes. The staff shows me in right away. And the doc spends lots of time asking about symptoms, etc. I go to X-ray to make sure no pneumonia plagues my right lung. He sends in the dude to give me a breathing treatment. Then comes the medrol shot. And on my way out, he arms me with prednisone and antibiotic, a script for a neb and some samples. Oh yes, and my personal favorite, Mucinex. (Those commercials are enough to make me gag.)

The woman who takes the money told me the doc lost several patients in the past few weeks. No wonder he seems off-kilter. The doc fits right up there with saints. He who checks on me at home on weekends to see if I am OK. That says a lot in my book.

* * *

 I talked to a really young cystic this morning. I wish it had been you rather than me. I had so little to offer him. I know the scare quotient breathes down his neck. I told him your story in three or four sentences. A teenager with a new baby. He mentioned that coughing sound.

* * *

One of my good friends got her wish and will put on her travelin' shoes. I am so thankful everything fell into place for her.

* * *

Not feeling so well now. Out of the gate galloping, but hit the rail on the first turn.

* * *

My heart flutters every time the IM pops. Is that not rather Pavlovian? Pavlov was a Virgo. Hmm.

Mourning dude.

Later.

P.S. I have yet to find another person who could figure out who I mean with the vaguest description imaginable. You know, that goalie with the green hair who plays for the team with red uniforms. Or that skinny guy who sang the song that has a lyric that mentions James Dean, you know kinda echo-ie. Miss you so much tonight, dude.