What’s up, doc?

8.10pm. I have been in the pub with Max. But my GP is holding a late drop in. So I drop in. Just to put my mind at rest about this bastard cough.

I tell her my medical history, that isn’t on her records because I went private as kid, back in the faraway moneytimes. I explain that I had double pneumonia after a broken rib, and each of my lungs collapsed in turn. It cost me a year of school. Now I’ve got a cough that won’t go away, which is where it all started last time, although last time I ignored it for months. She listens to my lungs. “Your lungs are really good,” she tells me after a run around with a stethoscope. She’s quite an unusual doctor. Very full forward. Very happy to banter with her patient. We hit it off immediately. I trust her.

I tell her “My friends have insisted I go to the doctor. Plus I’m a bit worried. And then I had a mate over last night and she told me I coughed all night long. I didn’t even know.” “Look, I can see you’re worrying given your past. But this sounds viral to me. You’ve already blown your nose twice since you’ve come in. Do you get hayfever?” “Not usually but I think the plane trees are trying to drown me this year.” “What you taking before you sleep?” “I’m on Actifed for…” She interrupts me. “None of that stuff works. That’s just ‘selling-medicine’. You should avoid all that ‘selling-medicine’ apart from maybe basic paracetamol once in a blue moon. It’s just for selling, that stuff. Most of it’s a load of rubbish.” “Yes,” I tell her. “But it sends me to sleep.”

She writes me a prescription for some sort of nasal spray. Mometasone as I recall. To stop the drip back when I sleep. So I’m not filling my lungs with snot every night. She tells me to sleep with 3 pillows but the pneumonia year leads me to know that I won’t sleep if I attempt it, and I’ll kill my own neck trying. Still, it’s her job to encourage me towards these ideal scenarios because if sleep were possible under such circumstances it would be wonderful.

I’m home now. I’ll get the prescription tomorrow. Right now I’m hungry and so is the catmistress. She’s jumped on my lap but I know it’s only cupboard love. I’ll feed her from her brand new supply of tasty vitamin nonsense.  And then I’ll cook fajitas for myself..

It’s already ten past nine. I spent most of today trying to clean and tidy things I have pretended don’t even exist for ages. I’ve got a clear job for tomorrow booking people and making calls. Things are feeling really lovely, really varied, really positive. I have a sense that the next month is going to be an absolute beauty and I’m hoping that by shoving this stuff up my nose from tomorrow my old shit bronchial tubes don’t get the better of my “remarkable lungs”. An odd thing to be complimented on, outside of it being a clumsy euphemism for boobies. I was strangely flattered.

Here’s the sunset and birds. Will I ever develop a photo habit? I remembered going home. Chelsea. Birds. Dusk.



Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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