I finally went to the doctor today, because inhaling still fucking hurts. Good thing I went — I have a pretty bad case of bronchitis. The X-ray was gross: the bottom third of my left lung is full of gunk. They tested me for a couple of other possibilities before the X-ray, flu and strep, and those were negative.
When I was a kid I got bronchitis at least once a year like clockwork. And then at 13 I started smoking. Sigh. There was a boy I had a crush on. He smoked cloves, so I took them up too. I still remember Corey, the kid who punched me in the face in seventh grade but got nicer over the summer, teaching me to inhale on the back of the deserted elementary school playground. Unfiltered Djarums proved to me too much for my tender lungs, so I switched to Marlboro reds. I smoked until just after my 32nd birthday. Nineteen years, most of which were spent smoking 2+ packs a day. I quit cold-turkey because an ex-boyfriend who smoked (who was much older than me) died of pulmonary fibrosis. I didn’t want to go out the same way. That was over six years ago. Quitting was the second smartest thing I’ve ever done. (First smartest was marrying the Valkyrie!)
Anyway, today the doctor gave me an inhaler and some antibiotics. The inhaler helps, although I can only do it every six hours. I would really like it right now because breathing hurts more again. But I can’t use it until 10:45. Argh.
After I finished at the doctor’s I had to drive an hour south to my psychiatrist appointment. So I was out of the house for seven hours, which is a lot when I’m sick. I’m so worn out physically, but I don’t want to sleep yet. Maybe I’ll spin or something.