Words of Hemingway without the Barrel of a Gun

 Some nights are like this in Suwanee, Georgia. Ottoman situation: typical but likely the final from said. Last week, I went to three shows in five days. I had excellent company for every one of them. I may have been a little too wild at that last one and prior to the event. So now I'm paying for it. This respiratory stuff can get fucked, y'all. I obviously tested for covid first because I have been patient zero for that and it felt like shit to know that I made some older folks and a baby sick. 

First symptom: sore throat. Then it escalated to a low-grade fever and a cough like I have not experienced in a decade. It's not the insistent cough of covid. It's the painful, productive, rattly cough of that one time I was hospitalized with bronchitis. Of course, I immediately freak all the way out. I have a round of antibiotics and a round of steroids on reserve in the event that I'm sick through the holidays and can't get in with my PC or pulmonologist. I'm not prepared to take the just yet. Give it a day or two and see if it improves or worsens. I have a suspicion of bronchitis or pneumonia. Hopefully viral and brief.

I placed a grocery pickup and figured I'd get that while I'm out getting my prescriptions. Soup, sparkling water, crackers, tea, the like. In addition to supplies for the things I'm taking to my sister's Christmas gathering on Christmas Eve.

I went to the pharmacy to pick up the hundred dollars of medication that include the medication that makes me want to not die and the additional medication that helps me breathe. Plus the ones that I may need to not go to the hospital over the holidays. Come to think of it, that one time I went to the hospital septic from bronchitis, it was New Year's Eve. I added orange juice to my champagne and called it healing.

I get to the desk and they tell me I have five prescriptions ready. Then they tell me "The Symbicort is on order." Sometimes it is. Then the actual pharmacist comes over with a grave expression. I do a heckin' concern. He tells me that there is a shortage. Y'all, this is the medication that took my pulmonary function test from 70-something percent to 98%. I mean, I just need it to breathe. He recommends that I call my doctor and see if she can give me something else. So I guess that's on the list for tomorrow.

Picked up some more Tiger Balm while I was there. Seeking volunteers to rub it on my shoulder. At this point in my athletic life, the scent, though extremely powerful, is practically aphrodisiac-level if for nothing more than the association with dopamine and relief. 

I've been rewatching the "Deadwood" series. It's my favorite. It has been my favorite for fifteen years. Every time I watch it, something different gets me in it. I've posted a few statuses about the new things this time around. I am madly in love with Sol Star. It will never be lost on me that he has this calm, warm sense of control and reason, but he still leads with his heart and that when he's got his load on, he really likes saying "cocksucker." And those clear, pale pools that are his eyes. John Hawkes does such a fine job.

I've got my earbuds in to drown out the...world. The cat scratching at the feeder, my ex-husband unburdening himself to me, my own coughing. An old friend asked my plans for the evening and I told him "I'm going to have a glass of pink bubbles, listen to sad music (my favorite), and write some good shit." He said that sounded miserable and I told him it's one of my favorite things to do, which brought to mind the lyric title for this one. Thank you, Jon Latham.

I am a little lonely tonight. Wishing there was someone I could have asked to pick up the groceries and my prescriptions and rub that shoulder. I'd happily return the favor. Being of use is in my soul. It's how I show love. But I'm in the living room alone. And some nights are like this in Suwanee, Georgia.

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