Just don't cough.

It was a busy week, last week. The arrival of what might be described as spring, with a bit more sun and at higher angles, showed the reason that spring cleaning has always been A Thing in this part of the world. House dust mite, or rather, house dust mite droppings, are a potent allergen for all of us so it was time to clean the carpets - spraying water into your wall-to-wall and then vacuuming it out again still leaves a certain dampness under the toes and being able to open the windows without freezing or letting the rain in does dry that last uncomfortable moistness out more quickly.

I hired out a carpet cleaner* for a couple of days and set to. Well, either the cleaning fluid is designed to change colour to make you think you're doing some good, or the carpets were particularly grotty this time around!

I was glad of the 48 hours hire because it meant I didn't have to rush the job and I couldn't have quite got the gear back to the shop easily; the local shop that hires out gear closed the week before so I had to run over to the next town, would you believe?

So. Saturday morning. The shop opens at 08:30. I was awake at 06:00, as for a weekday, much to my annoyance, but I was able to chill out, catch up on the news and generally enjoy the downtime, although the sleep would have been welcome.

07:00. TIME TO GO!

I sat up and coughed.

And coughed.

And coughed.

And whooped.

And coughed.

And whooped.

And whooped.

And coughed.

And didn't stop.
At some point I was on the floor, The Panda tells me; I remember having to fight to control my arms, which wanted to flail and fuss in the air in front of me. I tried a couple of things, but nothing was helping me get a solid breath.

I remember sitting on the side of the bed and being able to croak 'Heimlich!' at The Panda, who was already very alarmed.

After the fact, she told me she hasn't trained for the manouevre, but what I needed was something to override my cough reflex and a pair of arms squeezing in around my ribs helped trip things in my favour. The world settled and my breathing followed suit. Unfortunately, The Panda now had a nasty cramp and pulled muscles from the adventure, but at least we could gasp fairly coherently at each other after a couple of minutes.

So.
All very exciting. And the second attack in a week. The first one had been a solitary affair and I'd got things sorted out by leaning on the kitchen sink, although my eyesight had been going a bit grey around the edges.

The Panda called dibs on A&E and I was reasonably happy to head off, it being early on a Saturday – the chance of the place being busy was low, so we wouldn't be stuck for ages while other, more damaged, folk got priority.

We were through quickly and would have been through quicker if I hadn't dawdled and let somebody get in front of us. A nurse checked me out and, after a little while, said they'd get me to see a GP, which is pretty much what I'd have done at that time on a weekday: either we could wait over an hour at the hospital or drive back to Beartown and see the out-of-hours doc there in about 40 minutes.

Off we went again and were just about in time although there was a quarter of an hour wait while the GP got himself together and saw a wee girl first. Fine by me.

We were finally admitted. I sat in a phlebotomy chair and explained the problem. I was happy to have The Panda along, because my first description of the problem to the A&E receptionist was underwhelming and the additional testimony was useful.

I have what is being termed Adult Whooping Cough; it's going around at the moment. It's also being termed The Hundred Day Cough.

Well, it was true that I've had a cough for a few weeks, inheritted from The Cub, but it hadn't been so bad this year; unfortunately I could easily have echoes for another month or so yet.

The basic problem is that, suddenly, my lungs were producing a heap of very sticky mucus which has begun lodging at the top of my windpipe, hence the whooping** and extended choke reflex – something is truly stuck! 

Right, Oh well-fed and sleek Dr. Cat (who, come to think, looked of a similar age to m'self) how do we stop it if it started again?

He looked at me, thinking.

"Don't Cough," he said.

We paused. There being a Panda present, my 'ha-effing-ha' caught in my throat, but far less disastrously than the result of Whooping Cough grunge.

He had the decency to go on.

'We do medicines in the NHS. You have to protect this bit,' he gestured to his sternum. 'We could give you some steroids to help calm your lungs down and an antibiotic, just in case...?' He didn't sound that hopeful. 'Oh and Omeprazol to help your stomach lining, what with the Sertraline you're taking'.

I accepted the jollop as I reckoned even a placebo effect would be welcome, but I was hoping for something like the helpful advice by NHS Scotland, I think it was, on how to stabilise a cough from the beginning. No meds needed.

I must say, my chest did dry up for a couple of days; a great relief, but I've packed on nearly half a kilo every day since. Fortunately the steroids were completed after five days, so I'm hoping for a chance to get rid of the trouser-tightening addition to my person. There were some odd changes to sleep patterns as well. Sudden insomnia, but a wide-awake feeling in the mornings that was a pleasure to experience; it's possible that the Sertraline that keeps my thoughts on a more even keel is depressing, ah hah, my system while relieving my mind of the same.

The other difficulty was that the antibiotics said 'don't expose yourself to light and DON'T use sunbeds!'. The weather has been fine this week and it would have been a great opportunity to get on with the garden, but there's always something.

Anyway. We left the local hospital, headed for the pharmacy and then drove to the next town.

Well. I owed them a carpet cleaner, didn't I?

I'd phoned the shop as we were on the way to the hospital and asked how long 48 hours actually was; the lady sighed and asked how long extra we needed, until I told her the story, at which point she said 'no, just bring it when you can'. In the end I was only a couple of hours over, but I can tell you that the extra time I'd spent having a good natter with the lady when I'd picked up the kit in the first place REALLY paid off. It wasn't a deliberate thing, I just like nattering, as you can tell from the length of this story, but things are a lot more friendly in this part of the world, compared to The Big City Wot I Grew Up In. Or maybe it's because I was a teen and twenty-something back then. Well, it was cool. I wished the lady a happy holiday, recommended the odd shot of Amaretto in her Prosecco for a pleasant cocktail while she was in Barbados and we went off home to The Cub, who'd actually got up early on a Saturday, in honour of the drama and was ready for me to cook lunch. She does herself no favours, but that's teens for you!


*Ours has lost its last leg, which it had been on for some time, but, at over a quarter of a century old, it's to be expected.

** 'Whooping cough' has always been pronounced 'hooping cough' where I've been in Britain, but whooping, by itself, is pronounced with a 'w'. I have NO idea.