It's been a long time since the last post but I was bushwhacked by some foul germ that detected a weak spot in my lungs and moved in like an unwanted relative. In exchange for hosting this ugly bug I got to take to mah bed and play Camille--propped up on pillows and coughing into one of my antique lace hankies. Mr. T was very grateful that attempting to sing arias from anything was out of the question.
I spent the long days in bed listening to talk radio. This probably did not hasten the healing. The shows begin at 5:00 am with Lee, move on to Rush until noon, switch from radio to the computer so I could hear my buddy, Jaz McKay, from Bakersfield and then back to KSFO to wind up the day with Mark Levin. By that time I had usually fired off a few emails to the pack of thieves in Washington and was checking Google Earth for another place to live. Example of Jaz's way to handle airport security: "Yer name's Mohammed? Waterboard him! Your name is Jack? Go right on through."(Common sense reigns in Bako)
Since I did not heal especially fast, after 3 weeks of coughing and bedrest, Mr. T hauled my sorry self into the doctor's. I KNOW that when the doc is using the stethoscope to listen to one's lungs and his head snaps up and he exclaims, "Yikes! This is no good!" that I probably had waited too long. My choice? Hospital or steroids. I opted for the 'roids and kissed my professional sports career good-bye. I was sent home with pills, antibiotics and cough syrup. 
I am a wuss about taking medicine and I especially hate cough syrup. What do they do to it to make it taste so terrible awful bad? But this stuff was different. (Besides costing $200.00 for one little bottle!!!!) The directions said 1 teaspoon and the scientist in Mr. T kicked in. Several different measuring devices were tried until the most accurate teaspoon ever measured was poured down my throat.
Surprise! That syrup had zero taste! Further surprise---that was dang fine stuff. Forget the micro-measuring. Mr. T had to take over meds supervision when he caught me gulping directly from the bottle instead of measuring. Oh well--if I had enough lungs left, I'd have applied for medicinal marijuana while there are still any shops left.
The good news? CT scan showed the MAC had not returned--just an opportunistic lung infection. The bad news? There were no more democrats left to fire off irate emails to.
Little did I know that this was just the first chapter in the saga of The Perfect Storm that has comprised my life these last 8 weeks. But that's a later post.
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