Avoided a close call

heart ripples

Sending love and thanks to all my friends who threatened to physically haul me to the doctor if I didn’t voluntarily go on my own.

Turns out my symptoms totter on the edge of pneumococcal pneumonia (extreme fatigue, fever, difficulty breathing/wheezing, terrible cough). Bingo. The x-rays showed the lungs about 2/3’s clouded. I was put on a short acting bronchodilator to open the passageways, given scripts for prednisone, antibiotics and an inhaler to control the wheezing, and an appointment to come back in a month after more blood work (urine sample looked suspicious).

I asked about mowing, spreading manure—like country girls do—and got a “probably not” in response. I was also warned I’d feel significantly better quickly, but don’t let that fool me as this isn’t going to be easy to shake if I overdo.

Despite my modus operandi of ignoring most medical advice, I will honestly try to follow instructions this time. This… whatever *this* is… came out of nowhere, during the summer when I never, ever get sick, and hit me like a freight train. I can pin some of it to age and a general lowering of my immune system, but not all.

13903188_1366844833344524_5412257739282222541_nMeantime Ro is worried about me and feeling guilty about leaving me alone to handle the farm duties while Team Czar is in Maine. She also gave me strict instructions to leave the mowing and yard work to her, she’ll handle it when she gets back.

Sigh. I love being coddled, I hate being coddled.

Since I got a solid four hours of sleep in between coughing jags last night (the “productive” kind where you actually hack up the crap), I’m feeling downright chipper this morning. The assault on my system from the antibiotics has already begun but I have a plan—head to the grocery store for yogurt and to the health food store for pro-bi.

And once the grass/weeds/what-the-heck-is-that-stuff dries, Deere John and I might take an hour’s spin and do small sections at a time. I will *not* spread manure—I may not be the brightest light, but I ain’t stupid.

13934687_1243980322302339_6759477458240733718_n

Already I’ve fed the Bobster and harvested tomatoes, hauled a couple of buckets of water to the zucchini patch and tackled a few housekeeping tasks. It’s good to be able to breathe.

Meantime, take care of yourselves. Sometimes your body says “I got this” and sometimes it doesn’t. I’ve finally learned to listen to friends. I’m working on the body part.

Peace and a good harvest to all!

 

About Nya Rawlyns

Nya Rawlyns doesn’t write typical romance. She writes emotion as a contact sport, rough and often raw. It need not be pleasant, heart-warming or forever after. What she seeks is what lies beneath—a dance of extremes, the intersect of need and desire, and the compromises we make when pain and pleasure become indistinguishable. ***** She has lived in the country and on a sailboat on the Chesapeake Bay, earned more than 1000 miles in competitive trail and endurance racing, taught Political Science to unwilling freshmen, and found an avocation in materials science. ***** When she isn’t tending to her garden or the horses, the cats, or three pervert parakeets, she can be found day dreaming and listening to the voices in her head.
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