Just the Teensiest Hitch in my Get-Along

This week has been a whole circle of ass.

My plans (the house). Life (the homicidal robot).

Remember that pesky respiratory thing I’ve been plagued with since last week? It turned out to be pneumonia—of all stupid, pointless, wildly inconvenient things. When my airway started to swell shut from the continuous hacking, poor John had to drag me down to the ER (NYU Langone in Brooklyn, and till my dying day, which I sincerely hope is years from now, I will be grateful to them for saving my life.)

In my weakened state—and I am, admittedly, weak as a kitten and likely to remain so for weeks, possibly months—I have none of my usual tough girl swagger. Everything makes me emotional, and on that day in particular, it was the number of signs I saw in the ER warning people that physically and verbally abusing the medical staff was punishable by law.

Take a moment to let that soak in. To post such a sign means there were reasons to post such a sign. There was precedent. People actually went into the ER and vented their rage and frustration on the very professionals who were trying to save their lives.

I started crying out of sheer horror.

Now, people are people pretty much anywhere you go, but I don’t recall seeing any of these signs in Italian hospitals. In Italian hospitals, you get schlocky framed renderings of the Madonna, or a crucifix nailed to the wall (meta much?) or maybe a Padre Pio statue. What you don’t get are stern warnings about the consequences of assaulting the heroes who are trying to help you.

I’m sure they thought I was daft—or drunk—as I sat in my wheelchair blubbering. But what had we become? It was a lot to take in all at once. And then I remembered that New Yorkers actually cheered their healthcare workers during those first dark days of Covid. At 7PM, they raised their window sashes or went out on their fire escapes, clapping and banging pots and pans. Thousands did this. It was a powerful, citywide tribute to a besieged, overwhelmed, underappreciated group of people who did the most heroic work you can do. They saved lives.

And last Thursday, they saved my life. They swaddled me in warm blankets to reduce the convulsive shivering, plied me with Motrin and antibiotics, took X-rays of the war-torn hellscape that is my lungs, redid a test to make sure I don’t have heart disease, tested for Covid and influenza (both negative), and then sent me home feeling, for a time at least, a bit better than I did before.

My life as I would love it to be. Alas, reality falls far short.

As it turns out, pneumonia likes to stretch its legs and hang out a bit.

I have no strength, no stamina, for anything. That’s what bothers me the most. Even watching movies or listening to music exhausts me. I’m having to type this in secret because I promised John so faithfully not to do any Cappuccinos, and yet here I am, disobedient to the last. In my defense, I didn’t want you to think I’d abandoned you. There’s no abandoning here. Just a grumpy woman who had some important plans go completely off the rails.

So that’s what happened, and now you know. I hope you will forgive me for deserting my post. Trust me, the spirit is willing, even if the meat suit isn’t. And I will do my utmost to write when I have the energy.

Gotta say I didn’t have “pneumonia” on my Bingo card for 2023.

One of many amazing things that has happened since I went abroad is the pneumonia vaccine. I’ll be getting it. May I urge you do the same?