First of all, my iPod decided it was done with my poor taste in music. It divorced me and decided not to be found in any nook, cranny, or corner of the house. Being a poor lady who'll have to tap dance many hours in the street for a new one, I can already tell you I'm burnt to a crisp. Nobody has seen it and I'm feeling like it's my Nintendo DS and PSP Slim all over again. Do I need to glue these things to my butt? There's plenty of butt for it. MzMagenta, I thank you for your years of service. Hate to do it, but you're getting replace with another iPod. I'm sticking that thing on the dock all the time, never letting it get away again.
As for the sickness, it started with a heavy chest and an unusual winded feeling after my daily workout. I expected a little wind from the dancing and shaking, but not a full on sitting down with my face between my legs. Remember, I asked if anyone else was sick a while ago. Loathing the fact that I was starting round two of "the weird chest thing from three months ago", I tried to battle it out with Mucinex, rest, water, soup, and juice. I hocked, hacked, coughed, and darn near fainted every time I got up to do something. Preferring not to die, I eventually gave in and let my dad drag me to Walgreen's to the Wellness Center for the final round.
What I hated most about getting ready, walking out the door, and from parking lot to store was the winded feeling. Just what I need with my big bear of a self, looking like a brisk walk is making me sweat and wheeze for air on purpose. This was Friday, mind you. This was days after all the hardcore coughs and hacks and gasping spells for an entire week. I was SO embarrassed having to beg my dad to slow down. I HATED having to stop in the middle of the aisle to catch my breath while pretending to check out the antacid section. I wasn't alone. That waiting room was so full of sick people with all kinds of ailments. It sounded like we were all congested somewhere.
It was a good 2-hour wait before it was my turn. The entire time, I'm sitting there trying to weather the storm of Soul music stripped down to watery elevator music. I felt my natural nappy hair go straight with the annoyance of two chatty girly girls talking about some chick while clutching fake Louis Vuitton bags and even faker hair. One kept staring at me like I was on fire, and I'm sure the both of them were talking about my sick butt. Torn between telling them to shut up after a good tug at somebody's hair and feeling extra conscious for slapping some random clothes on, I resorted to scraping the chipped nail polish off my fingernails. When it was finally my turn, I was WAY too happy to get away from the irritants of the room.
Long story short, the ailment that plagued my childhood crept back into adulthood--Bronchitis. It's not chronic, but Acute. The APN checked my Oxygen count which was at 92 instead of that strong 110 she was looking for. My liquid wheezing made her frown quite a bit with every test. It made me wonder if I should be writing a will or sleeping upright for the rest of my natural life. Instead of an expensive inhaler, she gave me the pill form and another inhaler for emergencies. She put me on a breathing treatment in the office, which reminded me of my cousin Andrew and his days with breathing issues. I knew this runs in the family, but expected it to leave me the heck alone once I got older. Every season, I usually have an issue in that area of my body anyway, even when it's a tiny issue. Anyway, I got my meds from the local Sam's Club from a Nappa-like pharmacy associate and wheezed on home to better myself.
