Your Own Private i(da)Ho: Silence of the Lungs

Almost two weeks ago, when I was traveling during my break, I caught a cold, or so I thought. It started like a cold: sore throat, headful of mucus, all the usual pleasantness. I was feeling better after a day or two, and even went back to work, but then it invaded my chest and I started to wheeze.

I've had bronchitis before, but never had my lungs made such noises. Now they sounded like a Naugahyde couch when your fat aunt sits on it; now, a nest of birds or mice; now, birds and mice. The other morning as I was lying in bed, I breathed out, and piped a D above middle C, as true as can be. (The third note of the Beatles' "Yellow Submarine," if you're curious.)

Along with the wheezing came fever, a hundred and two at its highest, and I've been quite miserable. I went to the doctor, who did chest x-rays and bloodwork. "You're just going to have to outlast it, baby girl. It's viral."

The fever broke two nights ago, but still I've had trouble sleeping with all the lung noise. Last night each exhalation was a chamber orchestra tuning up, and I didn't fall asleep until well after 2 a.m. When I woke this morning, though, something was different. I needed a while to figure out that it was silence, at last. After an hour or two of the humors flowing and the dust stirring, the sound effects recommenced, but on a much smaller scale.

I'm trying to be patient, but I'm so ready to be well and to hear that beautiful quiet again.