(Cross-posted to LiveJournal)
My mother just texted me to ask if I'd gone to the doctor's yet.
No, I haven't. I'd thought about going yesterday after work, but then the time came and I wasn't feeling particularly wretched anymore. That's usually the way of it: I decide to go seek professional help, and suddenly my symptoms don't seem as serious. So I didn't go, because I was tired of having people look at me like I'm a hypochondriac (thanks, I got sick before any of this swine flu bullshit came reeling out of the woodwork).
I almost always feel this way in the presence of health professionals, actually--like they think I'm faking just to enjoy the pleasure of their company. Or that I'm being sick on purpose. Don't you just love it when people make you feel guilty about being sick? It's ridiculous, because I rarely seek out doctors. The last time I sought professional assistance (beyond the annual physical exam) was when I split my head open snow-boarding. See? Actual emergency situation. I hate hospitals and I hate doctors, and I don't try to spend time with them until I've exhausted all other options and it's become my last recourse.
So I felt marginally better yesterday afternoon (after eating half a dozen lozenges and a pair of Mucinex tablets), and decided to forgo the hairy eye I knew I'd get in triage.
Of course, then I woke up this morning and my left side sent me a throbbing pain whenever I breathed. Over the course of the hour between waking and walking to the Salem depot, I coughed up a bunch of fun stuff--and now it doesn't exactly hurt to breathe anymore. It just feels like there's a weight on my chest.
I know I should just go and deal with whatever typical incredulity gets thrown at me. I guess being treated like a faker for a few hours is better than contracting full-blown pneumonia from leaving bronchitis to fester.
Blah. I really don't want to go. But today is the seventh day, and I'm only feeling worse as time goes on. So--and so it goes.
Turn the page ...
Close the book ...
