Let me see if I can make clear why I say that.
This posting is about the persistent cough I had since the beginning of March -- lasted most of six weeks, right through my recent adventures with my grand-kids in Romania and Rome. Really a rasping and deep cough, mostly at night when I lay down to sleep, and immediately in the morning when I awoke.
Couldn't make sense out of it. Thought it might have to do with rising spring pollen-counts. Thought it might be a late reaction to Gatsby-Kitty's dander and hair. Thought it might be some sort of infection going around. Thought it might be some combination of such factors.
Thought it would just go away.
But it didn't. Hung on for most of six weeks. Kinda got used to it: deep rasping coughs that persisted, but didn't produce much phlegm. Coughed so much early-on that my shoulders got sore. But I soon toughened up. Even began to consider the cough a kind of upper-body strengthening exercise.
Didn't go to my doctor. (That'd make too much sense!) There is this damnable syndrome by which (some) old people tend to pooh-pooh anything but major illness. We wait it out. Having been raised in harder times, we've waited-out lotsa maladies -- anything short of long-bone fractures, persistent bleeding, or outright insanity has consistently cured itself over time. We've weathered a long line of physical discomforts based upon the innocent notion that time heals all wounds -- with maybe a little aspirin thrown in among sissies.
So on I coughed. I'm largely a solitary person, so there was nobody around who might catch my affliction or complain she might. Besides, anyone viewing my acrobatic coughing fits was very apt to just step back away from me thirty to fifty yards. I mean this cough was impressive. Theatrical is not too strong a word. I stop short of Tuberculin, only because I never saw a TB patient cough. But it had to be close.
One day though, while I was picking up my mail out front, I began to cough. In a moment or two, my lovely neighbor came over. She's a bright, young medical doctor, and over the few years I've known her, she kinda looks after me -- as if I'm maybe her surrogate dad or grand-dad.
Doc Milly'd been out walking her dog, Cocoa. She didn't have a stethoscope with her. But then she didn't need one. My lungs were about hanging out, dangling down my chest. And she'd seen and heard the cough, which was now lasting into its fifth week. Plus, being an emergency room physician, she well knew an emergency when she encountered one.
She quickly informed me that what I had was currently going around. I never argue with Milly. I like her too much, besides which all the evidence is that she's considerably smarter than I am -- and much prettier, too.
Anyway, she headed off through her open garage door to call my pharmacy with a prescription for a drug I can neither spell nor pronounce. What I brought home from my pharmacy about fifteen minutes later was three cucumber-sized pills -- so big in fact, I considered cutting each one into thirds just to get them down. But I'm brave: I dutifully took one a day, over the next three days.
They worked really well, in fact. But my chest still felt full and heavy, and I occasionally coughed, though just pippy little coughs. Kinda prolonged hur-rummphs hardly worth mentioning. I quickly fell back into my old-folks-ignore-it-it'll-eventually-go-away-pattern. After all, isn't that what happened to my old-timey beauty and virility?
Then about a week later I was Skyping with my Peace-Corps grandkids in Romania. Marisa opined: "Could be it's dust. Could be it's Gatsby-Kitty's hair and dander. . . . Are you still running the vacuum and dusting weekly?"
That pricked up my ears. While I didn't confess it to Marisa, the fact is that this past year I've been back-sliding as a housekeeper. Typically, I've gotten to the point where I reconnoiter my home weekly, picking up no dirt-clod smaller than a softball. Customarily I run the sweeper every few months or so, whether the carpeting needs it or not. My Swiffer has become a complete stranger. Dust-cloths, nevermore. In my defense I empty the waste-baskets -- if I can no longer stomp their contents below their tops. . .at which point I pry the contents free, and it comes out hard and neat as a concrete block.
And there are other tell-tale signs of my housekeeping efficiency. But I'll spare you. Except to say that at times I have to break my bed sheets over my knee and bend them sufficiently to get them into the washer. No spider-webs, thank you. The spiders have long-since evacuated. Dust balls? I'm afraid to look under the furniture. Windows? I had a crew in to wash them three years ago. I like my privacy. I can hear my neighbors well enough without seeing them.
SO! What I finally did to cure my cough was (aaaarrrgh!) clean the house. I smashed up the lumps and vacuumed two bags-full of debris off the rugs. I ran through two full boxes of Swiffer thingees on the hardwood. I dusted through several furniture phases from dry to muddy to bright&shiny. I undusted the Venetian Blinds. I even polished the cherry cabinetry. (I'd forgotten it was reddish in hue.)
But the thing I did that I think really mattered is I went to Sears and bought three humongous air cleaners -- the real spiffy sort with three filters. I spotted them downstairs in the finished basement, on the ground floor, and in my bedroom. I ran them on high until I could clearly see across every room in the house. (Took most of two days.) Since then I have run them around the clock on automatic. Sears alleges they have a sensor which automatically adjusts the air flow, and guarantees they will keep the air in a home pollutant free.
We shall see!
Couldn't make sense out of it. Thought it might have to do with rising spring pollen-counts. Thought it might be a late reaction to Gatsby-Kitty's dander and hair. Thought it might be some sort of infection going around. Thought it might be some combination of such factors.
Thought it would just go away.
But it didn't. Hung on for most of six weeks. Kinda got used to it: deep rasping coughs that persisted, but didn't produce much phlegm. Coughed so much early-on that my shoulders got sore. But I soon toughened up. Even began to consider the cough a kind of upper-body strengthening exercise.
Didn't go to my doctor. (That'd make too much sense!) There is this damnable syndrome by which (some) old people tend to pooh-pooh anything but major illness. We wait it out. Having been raised in harder times, we've waited-out lotsa maladies -- anything short of long-bone fractures, persistent bleeding, or outright insanity has consistently cured itself over time. We've weathered a long line of physical discomforts based upon the innocent notion that time heals all wounds -- with maybe a little aspirin thrown in among sissies.
So on I coughed. I'm largely a solitary person, so there was nobody around who might catch my affliction or complain she might. Besides, anyone viewing my acrobatic coughing fits was very apt to just step back away from me thirty to fifty yards. I mean this cough was impressive. Theatrical is not too strong a word. I stop short of Tuberculin, only because I never saw a TB patient cough. But it had to be close.
One day though, while I was picking up my mail out front, I began to cough. In a moment or two, my lovely neighbor came over. She's a bright, young medical doctor, and over the few years I've known her, she kinda looks after me -- as if I'm maybe her surrogate dad or grand-dad.
Doc Milly'd been out walking her dog, Cocoa. She didn't have a stethoscope with her. But then she didn't need one. My lungs were about hanging out, dangling down my chest. And she'd seen and heard the cough, which was now lasting into its fifth week. Plus, being an emergency room physician, she well knew an emergency when she encountered one.
She quickly informed me that what I had was currently going around. I never argue with Milly. I like her too much, besides which all the evidence is that she's considerably smarter than I am -- and much prettier, too.
Anyway, she headed off through her open garage door to call my pharmacy with a prescription for a drug I can neither spell nor pronounce. What I brought home from my pharmacy about fifteen minutes later was three cucumber-sized pills -- so big in fact, I considered cutting each one into thirds just to get them down. But I'm brave: I dutifully took one a day, over the next three days.
They worked really well, in fact. But my chest still felt full and heavy, and I occasionally coughed, though just pippy little coughs. Kinda prolonged hur-rummphs hardly worth mentioning. I quickly fell back into my old-folks-ignore-it-it'll-eventually-go-away-pattern. After all, isn't that what happened to my old-timey beauty and virility?
Then about a week later I was Skyping with my Peace-Corps grandkids in Romania. Marisa opined: "Could be it's dust. Could be it's Gatsby-Kitty's hair and dander. . . . Are you still running the vacuum and dusting weekly?"
That pricked up my ears. While I didn't confess it to Marisa, the fact is that this past year I've been back-sliding as a housekeeper. Typically, I've gotten to the point where I reconnoiter my home weekly, picking up no dirt-clod smaller than a softball. Customarily I run the sweeper every few months or so, whether the carpeting needs it or not. My Swiffer has become a complete stranger. Dust-cloths, nevermore. In my defense I empty the waste-baskets -- if I can no longer stomp their contents below their tops. . .at which point I pry the contents free, and it comes out hard and neat as a concrete block.
And there are other tell-tale signs of my housekeeping efficiency. But I'll spare you. Except to say that at times I have to break my bed sheets over my knee and bend them sufficiently to get them into the washer. No spider-webs, thank you. The spiders have long-since evacuated. Dust balls? I'm afraid to look under the furniture. Windows? I had a crew in to wash them three years ago. I like my privacy. I can hear my neighbors well enough without seeing them.
SO! What I finally did to cure my cough was (aaaarrrgh!) clean the house. I smashed up the lumps and vacuumed two bags-full of debris off the rugs. I ran through two full boxes of Swiffer thingees on the hardwood. I dusted through several furniture phases from dry to muddy to bright&shiny. I undusted the Venetian Blinds. I even polished the cherry cabinetry. (I'd forgotten it was reddish in hue.)
But the thing I did that I think really mattered is I went to Sears and bought three humongous air cleaners -- the real spiffy sort with three filters. I spotted them downstairs in the finished basement, on the ground floor, and in my bedroom. I ran them on high until I could clearly see across every room in the house. (Took most of two days.) Since then I have run them around the clock on automatic. Sears alleges they have a sensor which automatically adjusts the air flow, and guarantees they will keep the air in a home pollutant free.
We shall see!
Meanwhile I haven't coughed lately.
Could be, though, I've just outlasted my cough.
Could be, though, I've just outlasted my cough.
Stay tuned!
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