I’m home sick with a cold!
Bloody hilarious!
I’ve had a cough that has been hanging around for a couple of weeks, and I’ve been waiting it out. Last night I was getting pretty pissed off with the wheezing so I decided to ignore my body’s impulses, and just put up with a clenched irritation across the top of my chest.
I woke up today, looked out at the sunny morning spreading across the bay, and had a decent coughing fit.
Bugger.
This was when I decided action was needed, as I fly out on the weekend. I thought that at least knowing what was going on in my lungs would be a good idea.
I told the doctor that I felt fine, apart from a persistent cough (which would be completely normal if I was a smoker.)
He told me that he would decide how well I was!
I’m paraphrasing, but that was the intent.
This is why guys hate going to the Doc. We are never taken seriously unless a limb is pointing in an unnatural direction, or if we’re over forty and the doctor feels the need to poke a finger up our bum.
There are very few things in this world that a guy enjoys travelling the wrong direction up his posterior.
Any who, the Doc takes a tongue depressor (I know! I was surprised that they are still around too,) takes a gander down my gullet, and exclaims ‘oh my god!’
Once again, I’m interpreting the events from my memory, but the reaction was pretty accurate.
He offers me a sick note (I’ve never scored one before, and I’m not going to look a gift horse bearing ‘two official days off work’ in the mouth) which I took, and a prescription for antibiotics.
The crazy thing is, I feel fine! The cold seems to be lurking around deep inside, and occasionally erupts with a spell of hacking.
I go back to work on Friday (which is pub lunch day so the afternoon is mostly a write off.)
Bloody hilarious!
I’ve had a cough that has been hanging around for a couple of weeks, and I’ve been waiting it out. Last night I was getting pretty pissed off with the wheezing so I decided to ignore my body’s impulses, and just put up with a clenched irritation across the top of my chest.
I woke up today, looked out at the sunny morning spreading across the bay, and had a decent coughing fit.
Bugger.
This was when I decided action was needed, as I fly out on the weekend. I thought that at least knowing what was going on in my lungs would be a good idea.
I told the doctor that I felt fine, apart from a persistent cough (which would be completely normal if I was a smoker.)
He told me that he would decide how well I was!
I’m paraphrasing, but that was the intent.
This is why guys hate going to the Doc. We are never taken seriously unless a limb is pointing in an unnatural direction, or if we’re over forty and the doctor feels the need to poke a finger up our bum.
There are very few things in this world that a guy enjoys travelling the wrong direction up his posterior.
Any who, the Doc takes a tongue depressor (I know! I was surprised that they are still around too,) takes a gander down my gullet, and exclaims ‘oh my god!’
Once again, I’m interpreting the events from my memory, but the reaction was pretty accurate.
He offers me a sick note (I’ve never scored one before, and I’m not going to look a gift horse bearing ‘two official days off work’ in the mouth) which I took, and a prescription for antibiotics.
The crazy thing is, I feel fine! The cold seems to be lurking around deep inside, and occasionally erupts with a spell of hacking.
I go back to work on Friday (which is pub lunch day so the afternoon is mostly a write off.)
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