I had a swell blog post planned for this week, but I was thwarted. Instead of regaling y’all with my fantastic wit, I was spending my Saturday night at the emergency room, which isn’t as much fun as it sounds.
I was prescribed Cipro on Thursday. Saturday night my shins started itching to beat the band. A few minutes later I started coughing. It felt like I had a cat hair caught in my throat — which wouldn’t be all that unlikely at Casa Spector — except the coughing wouldn’t stop.
I called the urgent care nurse and she said to go to the ER.
On the drive to the ER, I keep thinking, “Okay, how long does it take to die from asphyxiation? Two, maybe three, minutes? How long before there’s irrepairable brain damage?” Okay, so perhaps I was getting a little melodramatic.
By the time I ended up with the triage nurse, I was having bronchial spasms. I discovered that if you’re having respiratory problems, they get you in to see the doctor really quick.
They hooked me up to some sort of respirator-thingy that pumped me full of oxygen mixed with a bronchial dilator. It was amazing. It took care of my breathing problem in about twenty minutes, and also made me feel like I’d drunk ten cups of coffee with a No-Doze chaser.
Anyway, they kept me there until about two in the morning when they finally sprang me with admonishments to call my doctor and not to take Cirpro anymore. So, I’m good as long as I don’t get anthrax.
Next week I have no doubt I’ll be witty as hell.