Tuesday, September 27, 2011


I have been impaled on a stake of misery.
My torso strapped there with some serious oxygen deprivation issues, my hands and feet each held in place by fatigue, bronchitis, asthma and aches.

I seriously don’t think I have ever been knocked around this badly. Of course, it doesn’t help that I’ve been pushing things for a while now, feeling rubbish for longer and trying to hide it all from my ten-month old, husband and family.

I am not a pretty sight.
But it’s not just me who thinks so.
Below is an exact transcription of the conversation I had with the doctor on Monday.

What’s wrong?

I suspect I have a chest infection and asthma.

Yes, I can hear that. I’d say it’s quite serious. Let’s prescribe…(and then he rattled off a cocktail of drugs that I know from my asthma days are not exactly butter menthols).

Oh no thank you, I’d rather not take those. I’m breastfeeding.

You’re still breastfeeding? How old is she? Ten months? You look dreadful. There’s not much to you. You look really run down, exhausted. 
Remember without proper treatment, asthma can kill you. It nearly did my neighbour. It’s just lucky I’d come home for lunch so he dragged himself over and collapsed at my front door. Fine, we’ll change the drug to this, but if you get any worse you must go straight to the hospital.

And then he ordered a blood test on account of how dreadful I look.

It was that quick and that brutal.

He is not my usual doctor.

But it was a matter of some urgency that I get air back into my lungs and my doctor doesn’t work on Monday.

So, what do all independent, mature, capable adults do when they don’t feel well?
They move back to their parents’ place that’s what.

And here we all have been for the past 5 days, me lying on the couch sounding like a chain-smoking Darth Vader, while my parents and various uncles entertain my busy girl and Gregory goes to work.

I tell you, the kookaburras are onto something. Their concept that all in the family helps raise the young is a genius idea.
Many hands do indeed make light work.
Although, to be fair, I’m not providing many of my hands at the moment, as in addition to finding breathing a difficult task, I had a reaction to one of the medications I was given and am sporting a rash which requires my hands to soothe on a regular basis.

So now I have fatigue bruises under my eyes, thin hair and poor skin from breastfeeding, a red nose from blowing it, cracked lips from constantly breathing through my mouth, a horrible wheeze, a nasty cough and am covered head to toe in a spotty, dotty red rash that’s so itchy I want to rip off the top layer of my skin and completely destroys the idea of being seen in public if I actually had the energy to get out there anyway.

I suppose that Doc is right.
I do look dreadful.
Now, I’ll accept most of the blame, but he’s the turkey whose prescription gave me the rash.

The lesson?
Never go to the doctors on Monday.
They’re too busy writing fake sick notes for people wanting a long weekend, to remember their bedside manner.

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