With my birthday quickly approaching, I'm becoming quite frustrated with my body's attempts to hold me down. Sure, two and a half weeks ago, when Jen and Peanut were fighting off allergy-related upper-respitory crap, I was glad that I hadn't come down with anything. So naturally, karma came around and bit me square on the ass two weeks ago.
As I've said previously, fighting off a 101.7 degree fever was not a pleasant experience, but that's what I did two Tuesdays ago. By the following day, my fever was mostly gone, but I'd developed a racking, wretching cough that sounds like it should be productive, but it's not. I've still got it two weeks later. After feeling feverish off and on for the last couple weeks, and with this cough not getting any better, I called the doctor. I felt like it was the right thing to do. After all, if this had been a virus, I'd have shaken it by now. I'm usually a pretty healthy guybut when I get sick, it's with a vengeance. I was convinced that it was a bacterial infection and I told the doctor, "Pills. Give me pills."
Okay, not really. The pills were his idea. I've taken my first dose today, and hopefully by tomorrow I'll notice more of a difference after I've taken my second dose. See, this is where it's tricky for me. Neither Jen nor I like to take medication unless it is thrust upon us. We'd rather suffer through the pain and let the other one share our misery, than take a pain reliever and end the suffering for everyone involved.
So, until I'm done with my antibiotics, I'm prepared to continue coughing until my throat is shredded, and I'm ready to complain about my aches and pains to Jen. At least until she throws something at me. Then I can complain about that, too.
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