Put a heaping spoonful of cold germs, Minneapolis' first generous helping of snow this year, and a dash of asthma and whatdoyaget? Bronchitis. I've decided we either need to install salad bar sneeze guards at work or my girlfriend needs to get a lot less sexier because I got the germs either from the girl who sits across from me at work or P-funk. Or both.
I went from hunky dory Saturday night when I had dinner and a movie with friends (I recommend "Children of Men," even if the ending left me wanting) to waking up Sunday without being able to take even the shallowest of breaths without horking something awful. I spent Sunday in bed.
Luckily, I had Monday off for MLK Day. Unfortunately, so did my primary care physician. Which sent me to the Minute Clinic where I told the RN I'm pretty sure I have bronchitis and she said "I agree, unfortunately, I can't prescribe the steroid inhaler you need, so you'll have to go to urgent care."
So I went to urgent care where Senile Old Doctor (SOD) told me my lungs sounded clear. Jigga what? I could hear myself wheezing without a stethoscope and SOD was trying to tell me he didn't hear anything? So I patiently informed SOD the only reason I ended up at urgent care was because of what the Minute clinic told me, so SOD prescribed the inhaler anyways. Which leaves me to believe SOD hadn't been too confident in his diagnosis in the first place.
I'm going back to bed now.