Feline Warrior

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Tags: wherethe hell is matt, matt harding

The doctor said that I’ve got a virus in my lungs. It wasn’t until I got home, napped, got up from the nap, wandered the house, that I thought “what the hell does that mean?!”

I think this might be what we’re looking at: www.medicinenet.com/respiratory_syncytial_virus/article.htm.

That is, “The respiratory syncytial virus (RSV) is a virus that causes mild respiratory infections such as colds and coughs in adults but in young children can produce severe pulmonary diseases including bronchiolitis and pneumonia.”

I don’t have bronchitis or pneumonia. I do feel -even more today- like my lungs are weighte balloons. And tired. I don’t even have the energy to let out a yelp of discomfort. So, in my saintlike way, I am suffering silently. (Just the tap-tap-tap of the keys…)

Woe is me and
I am woe.
We, woe and me, are one.
Would there be a race
between woe and me
Woe would have surely won.

I’m focusing mostly on the bit about lungs hurting everytime I breathe. I’m having some strange physical thing. I can’t say exactly when it started, but less than a month ago and more than a week ago. I get winded easliy -but not when I walk at 5:30 am- and my lungs ache. I yawned tonight and took a deep breath and the pain was quick, sharp and went into my shoulder blade. Needless to say, I let out a yelp.

I have an event after work, so didn’t get home until 10-ish. It’s a long drive (about an hour, or roughly 5 billion dollars in gas-speak) and me being me… I had to practice deep breathing. I’d do a surprise attack deep breath: “aHA, lungs! Gotcha!” and slow ambling southern ones (I don’t know what that means either, but play along with me, will you?): “Ah’ve always r’lied on the kindness of lungs…”

Anyway I tried it, it hurt. La Gordita, who is now a Mary Kay Consultant (soon we’ll all sport colorful faces with mannequin-like skin), gave her diagnosis: “You have achey lungs.” When questioned about her credentials to make such a edgy statement, she simply said, “I’m a Mary Kay expert. I just know things now.”

Naturally, my self-diagnosis began earlier in the day. My good friend, Dr. Google, provided a plethora of options from which to choose. I’m leaning towards asthma, but will accept just about anything but cancer. I don’t know what an iron lung is, but it makes me think of Iron Butterfly, so perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad. Those of you who know me are aware of my love of accessories, so perhaps… oh, no. That’s just stupid talk.

Was it last summer when we had the breast cancer scare? Yes. That all turned out to be okay. And as painful as that blasted biopsy was, there should have been some kind of answer besides, “Nope, it was probably just some tissue folded over on itself.” The nerve of that nurse: “You know, some women can’t even tell a needle is in their breast!” REALLY? Because I could have narrated ever damned second of that needle’s presence!

I digress. (surprise!)

This has nothing to do with the breast thing. I’m certain. I do have allergies (I’m actually allergic to just about everything! I’m DELICATE, I say!) It is making me edgy, though. M suggested that maybe I’m having panic attacks. I asked if perhaps a sense of PANIC shouldn’t be present and he backed off. (Panic attack my ass!) There’s something in my lungs, I say. A nest of treefrogs, maybe, or perhaps a nest of vipers.

Now, no doubt you are wondering about the rest of life - I haven’t really written much since my mother returned to California. I’ve been somewhat paralyezd by all that happened. I’ll be brief because it is now late and I am tired. And my lungs hurt.

Before she left, my mother forwarded me these two definitions:

Bully:
bul·ly
n. pl. bul·lies

1. A person who is habitually cruel or overbearing, especially to smaller or weaker people.
2. A hired ruffian; a thug.

Brute
–noun
1. a nonhuman creature; beast.
2. a brutal, insensitive, or crude person.

These are her descriptions of someone very close to me. It troubles her.