The old man’s friend

Coughing is the new me.

Or pneumonia is.

Funny. I thought pneumonia was for hospitals and old dying folk. Taking us gentle into the final night.

And here it actually is: a feverish, walking, talking, fucking sore, rattling and wracking gut-wrenching cough; requiring steroids and antibiotics that give you the shakes and the runs; sucking on inhaler spacers every hour.

I am struggling with it. Every breath is a temptation to fold into spasms of rumbling rattling coughing.

Yes. I am struggling and I am seriously pissed off. And I am fucking fighting this.

I mean: for fuck sake. What the fuck?

The new job starts on Monday – and the cough has so far seen off two 5 day courses of prednisolone (40mg); 2 week long courses of antibiotic and two ventolin inhalers.

My medical bro says I need hospital and x-rays – and I say ‘just one more day… it might be gone…’ He is frustrated with me – and I am avoiding him. And I am pushing myself to do stuff.

Like pissing off my old employer by spending the last month of my notice intermittently calling in to say I was too feverish and sore to work – and then turning up at meetings and to the office as I tried to ‘finish stuff’.

Now I am actually finished with the old job.

I am technically between jobs for all of two days.

Between jobs – and worrying about being well enough for Monday because, ffs, we all know that you just can’t phone in sick on your first day.

You can’t.

You really just can’t.

 

 

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