Cough. Cough. Cough. Holding up a hand in the universal “give me a minute” gesture. Cough. Cough. Co..cough. Ahem. 

Hey. How are you? I have pneumonia (probably but the doctor isn’t exactly sure). I know what you’re thinking but it’s really not Covid. Trust me on this. I even spent an entire day in the hospital, getting every manner of test and breathing treatment. That particular experience sucked all of the enjoyment out of the day, and I say that with all gratitude to the healthcare workers who did their best for me. 

It’s not my first asthmatic rodeo (does that work?) but it’s annoying me more than usual. I’ve been home for two weeks with very occasional trips to the pharmacy for meds and marginally useful cough medicine. My rear has, I believe, taken the form of the recliner in which I spend most of my coughing hours. 

Although I wasn’t diagnosed until a few years ago, I’ve probably had asthma my whole life, with, as I’ve mentioned before, many thanks to my parents and their lifelong smoking habits. Bronchitis was a frequent diagnosis in my childhood. If I had a dollar for every spoonful of the mysterious turpentine-smelling cough syrup that my mother forced on child-me, I’d still shiver every time I now drink the somewhat less horrible-tasting orange liquid from the little Dayquil cup. 

Mostly, I stay silent – talking leads to coughing. Breathing leads to coughing. Pretty much everything leads to coughing now that I think about it further. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking – not so much about coughing, though, oddly, it has occasionally entered the mental discussion. 

All of my silence has allowed much time for my brain to over-produce words that have gone unsaid. It’s a difficult position for someone like me, unable to talk and mostly lacking the physical energy to type. [Coughing takes a remarkable amount of energy.] What does one do with one’s words when there is no outlet for them all? 

So, yes, I’ve been thinking about all sorts of things while I endure the many fine side effects of prednisone … like sweating. That’s a fan favorite. O.O The advice for enduring the sweating? Wear a strong anti-perspirant. Really. And yes, I’m both enduring the prednisone sweating and thinking about the unpleasant aspects of sweating while I cough up my lungs. 

Here’s one of the experiences I’ve been thinking about – many years ago, when I was a grad student, I had to attend a dinner at a professor’s house. All of you current and/or former grad students understand the political importance of attending academia-issued dinner invitations. It was fine, I guess. I don’t remember most of the particulars, including what we ate. 

What I do remember with remarkable clarity was the three-plus hours we spent with the professor’s husband, learning about his favorite hobby – antique clocks. It was very cool, at first, you know? Talking to a much older gentleman who was so eager, so excited to show all of us “young people” his workroom on the second floor of their house. His workbench was wooden, a darker wood that matched the floor. The room was cluttered and softly noisy with clock sounds. 

If only the discussion had ended after a reasonable amount of time. Instead, perhaps because his spouse already knew or simply didn’t care to listen further, he – with so many words unspoken in his own head – trapped seven or eight grad students in his workroom and kept us there for hours as he expounded. We students, with homework to complete and classes at 8AM sharp, struggled to stay on our feet, squeezed together in a room that seemed to shrink as the hours passed. I remember being so tired that I was making little mental negotiations about just closing my eyes for a moment. Because we all know how that goes. 

He’d be delighted to know that I still remember the clocks and even have a few of my own, now. I hope he never realized how desperate we all were to leave when the last clock chimed midnight and he arose from his stool to send us on our way. 

Much love.