Things That Aren't What They Say
Weekend before last, Biggy and I were out riding at Blankets Creek, and I inhaled a bug. Of course this set off an awful coughing jag, which has now lasted for more than ten days. For the first few, I figured it was the bug working its way out. I pictured its little body breaking up the way a roach once broke up in Biggy's cocktail at the Chamber back in '97. (Dancing in the dark club, he kept finding pieces of something in his rum and coke, spitting or rubbing it off his tongue until he realized what it was.) I thought I'd cough up wings and antennae, etc. and be done.
Somewhere along the line, I started feeling like I'd been hit by a Vespa--you know, not like Strep or the flu, where you feel like you've been hit by a truck; more the way you feel when you've performed sty surgery on yourself with tweezers, Q-tips, and a bottle of peroxide--on top of having bronchitis and a sinus infection. Yeah, what I have.
I sat in a Wellstar URGENT Care facility for three hours to find that out. THREE HOURS. I watched the View, read two old Family Circles, listened to some greasy old pharmaceutical rep work his magic with the office manager, and still had time to imagine the scenario in which they discovered I had lung cancer (which never would have been caught if it hadn't been for the bug). I was giving myself the pep talk about being brave for those around me and setting an example of dying with dignity when they called me back.
I did like the doctor, though. She was probably about 11, but she did not laugh when I told her the bug story. She didn't tell me I was crazy, that I'd "probably just SWALLOWED" the bug or that a bug would have already been "absorbed into my system" (Biggy, Hank). SHE ordered lung x-rays. SHE was afraid I might have aspiration pneumonia.
I didn't, but still.
And I think I fixed my eye.