My cold lingered, picking up steam with each passing day.
The pinnacle of my misery: gasping for air in the middle of night after a particularly violent coughing fit, frightening both my sailor and myself. Time to visit the doctor.
She diagnosed bronchitis and prescribed antibiotics. They should start to kick in after about forty-eight hours, at which time I should not only feel better but will no longer be contagious.
Until then I’m mooching around the house, feeling like something the Chihuahua rolled in.
I’m way too busy for this and besides, bronchitis was never part of the “Christmas with my sailor” plan.
Raw sore throat–check
I have self-diagnosed acute viral nasopharyngitis AKA the common cold.
I’m miserable, whiney and, in all honesty, no joy to be around. For the first time since his departure, my sailor is likely relieved to be in Afghanistan.
Last night I tossed and turned so much I woke the dog, not just once but several times. Disgusted, she finally heaved herself up with a grunt and sat at the foot of the bed with her back to me.
How did I react? Like a normal, intelligent adult who realizes the dog has a pretty good life if she’s sleeping in my bed in the first place? (I’ve read that many of her canine cousins live outdoors in unfurnished structures called dog houses.)
I apologized. Sick and wretched in the middle of the night, instead of trying to make myself comfortable, I asked the dog for forgiveness. (I don’t even apologize to my sailor this profusely when my coughing wakes him, but then he never turns his back on me to demonstrate his annoyance.)
Did my apology work?
Not exactly. I had to pat the bed invitingly and give her a tummy rub when she deigned to come back to cuddle with me.
I need to add some cough syrup to my over the counter arsenal because I can’t face this disapproval again tonight.