Since last weekend, I’ve done what any normal person would do with a cold.
I loaded up on fluids, I drank tea, I made a bowl of tomato soup, I rested through all the rain we had all week long. I was too tired to walk out the door on Monday, so I didn’t get to the library in time to post a Monday update. The Flonase didn’t work, the Zyrtec made the coughing fits and watery eye thing worse.
So today, I cancelled my therapist appointment and headed to the doctor’s office to get it all checked out. The first thing the doctor checking on me said, “So, are you here for the surgery?”
I looked at him suspiciously and raised an eyebrow. “No… I’ve had surgery only once and I don’t want that again.”
“Oh,” he said, controlling his giggles. Laughter aside, he made small talk with me about how I liked to do karaoke on Tuesday nights at Ashland Cafe, but I couldn’t do it tonight because of my throat that was killing me.
He wanted me to take a different nasal spray and what sounded like cough syrup, the nasty-tasting stuff you chase with juice to make the bad taste go away, to make the post nasal and dry sore throat stop eaking-out-free.
“The one thing worse than a sore throat is a dry sore throat,” he said.
So regular check up, right? He then tells me that I could be at risk for strep throat, so he got a nurse to test me for it. All they do is take a Q-tip and stick it in the back of your throat to get a culture sample. The after effect feels itchy and the test itself is only 70 percent accurate, so they have to send the test back to another hospital to analyze it to make sure I don’t have strep throat.
And if the final test comes back positive on Friday, that means I have to get antibiotics because nobody wants a 27-year-old to have heart problems afterwards. I don’t have a fever, which is the opposite of what a person with strep throat would have- sore throat, fever, aches, cough, chills and sweats.
I’ll bet you anything that the strep throat test will come back negative. It’s not that I don’t want that disease, and I don’t, but I’m pretty sure it’s just a bad pollen reaction to this bad weather from April to May. First it was warm and sunny, then it got cold, then it got warm again, and now we’ve had cold, windy, rainy weather for almost two weeks straight. I’m not putting my long sleeve shirts away just yet.
The feeling is uncomfortable. The nose I can live with. But the throat is murder. I feel like Mimi in La Boheme, woman in poverty coughing all the time.
Meanwhile, my parents have started a “Let’s re-watch Harry Potter” marathon in the upstairs bedroom every night since last Friday. Last night, they just got through the Goblet of Fire, year four of Hogwarts, and they will soon move on to movies five and six tonight.
Both films, Order of the Phoenix and Half-Blood Prince, were the absolute worst as far as screenplay. Poorly executed script and bad directing after bad directing. Daniel Radcliffe blossomed as an actor on screen, I’ll give him that. Bravo. But when he screamed, “Fight back! Fight back, you COWARD!” I expected a little more emotion out of Alan Rickman, who revealed himself to Harry after Dumbledore’s death.
Now that Alan Rickman is dead, I’m starting to think it wasn’t the actor’s fault. Blame it on the director and the screenwriters. I mean, they burned down the Burrow! That doesn’t happen in the book! And what happened with Harry and the Dursleys in the beginning of year five? Owls are supposed to invade their home and Petunia is supposed to get a Howler that explodes!
Ok, enough of my rant on the two Harry Potter films that sucked, especially number five because they ruined my favorite of the seven novels. I just hope I get down safely… (Step, step, sigh, cough)…
Right now, I have a pop song stuck in my head after the singer unceremoniously slipped and fell on stage when she tried to grab the mic on Jimmy Fallon. I still love her.
And I love my readers too. If I were you, I’d want to read too.
I should pull out my dad’s copies of the seven original hardcover Harry Potter books out. The funny thing is, I don’t know where he put them.
Oh well. I’d better sleep this one off.