• The regrettable application of long term memory

    Have you ever forgotten what it was like to feel good? I’m almost there. I almost have to flip the calendar to find that last, blissful day.

    The worst part of it all is it may be self inflicted.

    “Wait a second, how is a cold self inflicted?”

    Kudos to me for such a good question. My daughter inherited my gift for interrogation, but that’s another story.

    The cold started innocently enough: a few sniffles here, a few coughs there. For those of us familiar with allergies and sinuses more concerned with mucous production than breathing, this is nothing new. In fact, it’s one reason why many of my colds go untreated for so long – something my team of doctors have advised against due to my immunity issues.

    This time though, I was really dumb. I went almost two weeks until I called my doctor. I did a course of treatment. I went to work. I went to court. I wasn’t feeling better. Then I did what many of you would do, if you were in my place: I went to Disney World for the long holiday weekend. Trust me, if your kids are half as cute as mine, you’d go too. Of course, it was a long slog. It took an effort to remain vertical, but I made it home… exhausted. The next day I went back to work again.

    Feeling worse (big surprise) and short of breath, I went to see my doctor after work, that first day back from Disney. She took a listen to my lungs and she heard more than she wanted too, telling me I had a pinch of pneumonia.

    All of this was really exciting to me. I’d never had pneumonia before.

    That first course of antibiotics did little. Even the steroids didn’t clear things up. That second one did nothing, so I made another call – and picked up another prescription – number four if you’re keeping score. It’s hard to believe we’re way under the 7.5% of adjusted gross income for deducting medical expenses. A few days passed, bringing us up to date.

    It turns out I’m probably having an allergic reaction this last antibiotic. Who doesn’t love a good rash? The good news is my cold symptoms are finally easing. My bronchi are acting less like sieves and the nasties are slowing their decent from my sinuses down the back of my throat. However, this latest aborted treatment brings the list of antibiotics I’m allergic, or had some kind of bad reaction to five: Penicillins, Sulfonamides, Quinolones, Cephalosporins (the early ones anyway), and now possibly Clarithromycin (though I haven’t had a problem with some of the other Macrolides – assuming you don’t count nausea and vomiting as a problem). I’m more worried than ever that I’m untreatable, which ain’t great for someone who seems to get sick more often than many.

    So here I am: fresh off my circumnavigation medical treatment theory… back to treatment plan A (mine), or letting it ride (sans drugs). My symptoms are a bit better this morning so my doctor wants to see if it’ll resolve itself (with a boost from the Clarithromycin already in my system). This might have been the right track all along if it’s a virus, but my docs always want to do the antibiotic thing to prevent secondary infections.

    All I can say is: ugh.

    Phizer, GlaxoSmithKline, Roche, Merck, Wyeth… where are you when I need you?

  • Recycle this!

    Is it possible to digress before you get started? Some folks make fun of my recycling box, itself a recyclable item: a big cardboard box from Amazon. When one wears out or grows a little funky I fold it up and put it in a new, recyclable box. It feels like an elegant solution to a daily responsibility. Something about getting a plastic box to collect recyclables just feels…

    Wrong.

    This evening I ran out to Cheryl’s car with the boxes, anticipating a trip to the recycling center.

    Saying we’re going to the recycling center feels too antiseptic. What it really feels like is a trip to the dump. It reminds me of my childhood, before Billerica (MA – my birth home) had curbside trash collection. I loved going to the dump with my dad, backing the old Pinto up to the precipice. I loved the sense of danger (or what passed for peril to a seven year old). I loved throwing junk into a giant pit.

    I love that I can share some of the joy of the dump with my children, even if it is a much smaller scale: no giant pit, no throwing trash with all your might into the abyss, no smell, no danger.

    But I digress (properly this time).

    Cheryl pointed out our stash of left over IKEA boxes I’d missed. So I made another trip out to the car. Then we made our grocery list, discovering the weekly cache of empty boxes left by the kids. So I made another trip out to the car. By the fourth trip I should have figured it was time to bring the boxes back into the house, but by then I’d surely gotten it all, right?

    Wrong.

  • First time

    Cheryl was headed out the door early this morning to take Adam to a soccer game, and I felt compelled to give her a warning. A Floridian for most of my life, I’m almost certain these words never crossed my lips before:

    “Be careful, there may be ice on the roads.”

    It came out so naturally, you’d think it was a memory encoded in my DNA – from generations of ancestors living in much colder climates. It was a really odd experience.

    I don’t mean to make light of the much, much worse conditions folks faced in other parts of the country. I hope you don’t take any offense.