Pneumonia: The Gift that Keeps on Giving

It's cute how the universe ticks. Last rain I got so excited that I went mud-wampin'. That's when you stomp through floodwater with the long-term goal of catching pneumonia. Some people mud-wamp in their cars, searching the gutters for that log-ride effect. I write you now with pneumonia. In all my years of wampin', I had never actually caught it, but this time I already had a cold and wouldn't you know. It's a wonder they don't issue me a helmet.

The infection moved in like a fussy houseguest, and though we bickered at first, pneumonia is starting to grow on me. Or in me. It's mostly a whooping cough along with that stuffy feeling you get when you cry nonstop for three years.

Ahem. Whoop. Cough.

People spend so much time fighting colds. If we're not bouncing back, we're trying to "feel ourselves" again. I was raised to not feel myself, but the point is that once you lean into it, sickness can be your friend.

Yesterday, for instance, I accidentally changed lanes on the freeway and didn't even notice the honking. Or the finger for "you're number one." Then I stored the milk in the cupboard and drank it anyway. If you tilt your head just right, pneumonia is like nirvana.

Ahem. Whoop. Cough.

I don't usually visit the doctor on account of my HMO: All it covers is an apple a day. Instead of anesthesia, they just punch you in the face. So it goes.

Today the nurse asked if I had been taking my prescription.

"Off and on," I said.

"Well, you may as well not take it at all."

Normally I'd counterattack -- have at you! -- but in my sweet syrup of indifference, I just swayed to the clocking of the tick (you know what I mean).

"Yes," I said. "It is like that -- like not taking the pills at all. Maybe the pharmacy will refund me."

The nurse gave an extra pump to my blood-pressure cuff and said, "Yes, maybe they will." It was the politest tension you'll find outside the British Parliament. And I didn't even point out how they had asked for my birth date and my age. I thought these people were educated. Could you see them in surgery...

"Oh, here's the problem: He's got a doohickey on his thingamabob."

The doctor walked in to relieve Nurse Ratched, who lingered at the door with the stink eye, dot dot dot. And these are Days of Our Lives. Or in this case, General Hospital.

Doctor P. listened to my lungs and asked if I'd been playing in the rain. I told him that I had. He shook his head and recommended a shrink. Doctors smile more because of the golf.

Ahem. Whoop. Golf.

The doc recommended bed rest, as opposed to the rest I was getting on the freeway. He prefers Sealy to my Spinalpedic -- oh, we were talking about mattresses. Fact is, I can't remember what we talked about, and that's the way I like it.

Pneumonia reminds me of that getting-old poem by Jenny Joseph: "When I am old I shall wear purple with a red hat that doesn't suit me ... And I'll run my stick along public railings and go out in my slippers in the rain and pick the flowers in other people's gardens ... "

And put milk in the cupboard and shun my prescription!

Doctor P. says that my condition will get worse without antibiotics; and while I may take his drugs, I have to admit that I'm tempted to explore pleurisy.

Ahem. Whoop. Cough.