Upper Respiratory Infection 3. Brigid 0.
Outside of actual injury, as I have broken a small bone or two during my career in all manner of exciting ways. . .
rappelling
Secret Ninja Hotel Dresser
metallurgy experiment and gravity
I almost never call in sick. When I do, it's for a single day, I try not and whine about it.
Not today, what was a dry cough yesterday during the afternoon turned into an attempt to circulate motor oil in my lungs throughout the night.
I woke up wheezing, with this heavy weight on my chest, and the room full light. The heavy weight was NOT congestion or heart issues. (Since I keep a camera bedside for those often hilarious 4 a.m. "Barkley tries to wake Mom" moments, I snapped what was in my view).
It was a 88 pound lab laying on top of me and all the covers, with his face to mine, and an expression that said "are you OK? are you OK?", for I know I coughed most of the night until I finally fell asleep with him laying on the floor by the bed instead of out on the couch where he normally sleeps.
I reassured him I'd live, gave him some nasty dry crap and called my boss at squirrel central to say I was down for the count for my remaining bit of duty this week. I then called my assistant, who offered those comforting words that only a male colleague can "Gee B. you sound like &$#* !
But I'm not going anywhere, for a while, even when I'm officially off sick leave, too puny to brave I-65 and bummed I am going to miss the Girls Day Out with Tam before I hit the road.
I didn't think it was bronchitis but when I started sounding like a demented air compressor by lunch, I went to the urgent care that's associated with my hospital network as I was feeling like anything but Superman.
The Brain: We're going to a place where the sun never sets, the size of your wallet matters, and actors and actresses slave all day.
Pinky: We're going to Denny's?
