Potholes in the Road to Wellville
Just a long day with few distinguishing features except a visit to the pulmonologist.
In general, he says, I am getting better. But he went out of his way to caution me that the trek back to normal is going to be a long one. Weeks, maybe months. My lungs still aren’t processing oxygen the way they’re supposed to — and won’t, until they’re fully healed from the pneumonia.
Not what I wanted to hear, but what I have to live with, I guess.
Tomorrow, just for variety, we’ll talk about something *other* than my decrepitude. For the article in *Wizard* #164, I did a Q&A with writer Christopher Lawrence about *Hard Time*, much of which, due to space limitations, never made it into print. I’ll post the text here tomorrow.
September 8th, 2005 at 4:11 AM
Just don’t short change your recovery, ‘k?
September 8th, 2005 at 9:28 AM
Seconded. And I’m a generally lousy patient — unbearably grouchy and difficult to please until I start feeling anywhere close to normal — then I proceeed to go back to my old schedule and generally get clobbered again. I could get away with it in my 20s. Not so much now.
September 8th, 2005 at 2:38 PM
Rushing the recovery would be my typical tendency, too, but I think I can avoid it this time. The idea of winding up back in the hospital is a powerful disincentive.
September 9th, 2005 at 5:43 AM
Something else to keep in mind: once you’ve had pneumonia, you’re far more susceptible to getting it again than someone who has never had it. My first battle with it came as a result of a very bad Cleveland Winter–but the next time hit me in a mild season. Since then, I’ve been much more careful.
Funny story related to that, though. When I first contracted pneumonia, I was in denial. No matter how much I coughed, I refused to go to the doctor. One night, I was interviewing Michael Palin, whose book Full Circle had just appeared. He was in England, I was here in the Midwest, and a silver cord of technology connected us. Every time I threw him a question, I coughed like a man trapped in a pepper factory. Finally, he started coughing. Between us, we sounded like a bad chorus.
“It’s contagious,” I apologized. “Distance is no protection.”
“The miracle of telecommunications!” he responded, using one of his Monty Python voices.
Then we both dissolved into wracking, coughing laughs.