The COUGH

I had a cough recently.

Oh please, tell me more.

 But you don’t understand. This wasn’t your average joe cough. If coughs were sharks, this was Megalodon.

It ignored antibiotics.

It scoffed at humidifiers.

Cough drops were merely child’s play.

But the worst part was the sound, like tuberculosis and long term smoking.

It was amazing my husband hadn’t left me. I told him that the other day. “Honey, thanks for …” cough, hack, chest rattle…I held up my hand. “Hold on,” I wheezed. I pulled out my inhaler. Deep breath, inhale. Pump, hold breath for 10 seconds, exhale. Cough, gasp, clear throat. “Thanks for putting up…”

He had wandered off.

I couldn’t blame him.

By week four, the antibiotics the urgent care doctor had prescribed still weren’t helping. I made an appointment with my doctor.

After the nurse took my temperature and checked my blood pressure (120/78 – Yes, that IS excellent blood pressure, thank you for noticing.), the doctor came in.

“So, how are you doing?”

Cough, wheeze, chest rattle, gasp, cough, cough, cough.

That’s how I’m doing.

 He put his stethoscope on my back and had me take a few deep breaths. “How long have you had this cough?” he asked.

“About a month,” I answered.

“And is it a productive cough?”

As opposed to a lazy cough?

“It’s a good cough,” I said.

“But is it productive?” he asked again.

Why didn’t someone tell me there was going to be secret cough lingo?   

I felt like a moron. I’ve always known I didn’t have the intelligence to be a doctor, but I thought I possessed the mental capacity to be a patient.

“I’m just asking, it is dry, or is it…?”

Okay, now I’m with you.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s productive.”

My doctor ordered a chest x-ray.

A week later, the results came back. It was neither pneumonia nor its more active cousin, walking pneumonia. Bronchitis was also ruled out.

“It’s a viral infection,” He said. “You need to rest and drink plenty of fluids.”

The problem was my husband, daughter, and I had already planned a trip to Paris the following week.

So if by rest he meant, walk endless miles through the streets of Paris, and maybe run along the Seine River when it’s 29 degrees, well, then yes, I rested.

But I did drink plenty of fluids.

Wine is a fluid.

Sometimes I could go hours without coughing, but then without warning, a coughing spasm would occur.

One episode happened in an elegant Parisian café. There’s nothing that the French enjoy more than an American hacking up a lung in their classy bistro. And unlike other medical conditions, when one has a coughing attack, there’s no protocol to stop it.

With choking, there’s the Heimlich maneuver.

If someone has a heart attack, call 911.

Even with sneezes, you can at least say, “Bless you.”

But with a cough, you are not blessed.

In fact, people pretend they don’t even know you.

Halfway through my fit, I heard my daughter whisper to the next table, “Elle n’est pas ma mere.” (“She’s not my mother.”)

I couldn’t catch my breath to use my inhaler. Tears were streaming down my face as I wheezed and hacked and gasped.

The waitress brought me a glass of water, and the check.

Walking away, she muttered something in French. I don’t think it was, “Y’all come back real soon.”

A few minutes later, when I was finally able to take my inhaler and my cough was reduced to low level emphysema, we left.

“Where to next?” I wheezed.

We ordered room service that night.

I couldn’t blame them.

After returning home, I decided to follow my doctor’s advice.

I rested. I drank fluids. (Not wine). I rested some more.  

And still I coughed.

“It’s been seven weeks,” I informed my doctor, when I went for a follow-up. “Maybe it’s whooping cough. I hear that’s making a comeback.”

He shook his head. “Your cough doesn’t have a name.”

My cough is Voldemort!

“It just takes time,” he said as he listened to me exhale.

But I didn’t have time. My Godson’s wedding was in three days and I was having nightmares that my cough would drown out their wedding vows.

On the day of the wedding, I stocked my purse with cough drops.

It was a beautiful day, all white lilies, blue sky and the melody of the piano paired well with the wheezing in my chest.

The bridal party made their way down the aisle.

No cough.

Music filled the ceremony and the bride appeared.

No cough.

The bride let go of her father’s hand and took the groom’s.

No cough.

There were prayers, and stories, and laughter.

I can do this!

The bride read her vows and I teared up.

No, I was NOT about to cough. It was just really touching.

The groom began to read his vows.

And then I felt it. From deep in my chest, it rose.

Oh, please God, no!

The groom continued his heartfelt vows. You could hear a pin drop.

Where’s a drunk uncle when you need one?

Voldemort had made his way to my throat. I tried to suppress it by putting my hand over my mouth, like a child refusing to eat her beets.

Vigorously I sucked on my cough drop, hoping its powers could contain the beast.

But like always, it broke through.

Right when the groom was expressing his eternal love, I COUGHED.

My husband and daughter shot me looks of horror.

I bent my head, using both hands to cover my mouth and braced for the attack.

A few seconds passed.

I inhaled. No cough.

I exhaled. No cough.

I uncovered my mouth. My chest wheezed softly. And the wedding continued.

Hands were held. Rings were exchanged. Names were taken.

It was an elegant, cough-free (well, just that one) wedding.

And when the pastor said, “It is my pleasure to now pronounce…”

It happened.

Not just one, but a series, an uncontrollable fit, so violent, so explosive that the pastor had to stop. All eyes were on us.

But my husband kept sneezing.     

“Bless you,” I whispered.

Then, I scooted away.

Can you blame me?