I hate August in Florida. And it’s not because of what you think. Sure it’s hot, but I never minded that. I grew up in Texas where it was still 99 degrees at midnight in August.
No, what I hate about August in Florida are all of the disgusting plants in the swamp decide to pollinate and release their nasty little pollen spores whose only purpose in life is to find their way up my nose.
Once ensconced in my nasal cavities, they begin to work their magic. I should be in the Guinness Book of World Records for the number of sneezes in a row—and no little choo-choos but ACHOO, ACHOOs.
Invariably I would also get an infection wanting to join the party so then I have to include a doctor in the game who supplies the drugs—antibiotics, I mean. I thought I was smart enough to end the party when it wanted to travel down to the lungs because that can lead to pneumonia which can end in death even now in the 21st century.
Which brings me to where the real story begins. A few weeks ago I was hosting another mucous gala when I realized that the infection arrived. For whatever reason I decided not to go to my doctor for an antibiotic. Maybe I thought this time the routine would be different. At age seventy-one I should have known better.
I noticed in the quiet of the night I could hear the wheezing from the lowest recesses of my lungs, and those wheezes began to sound like voices. This was not new to me. I have a REM sleep disorder which means I stay in the dream state all the time. I think I see things and hear things in that nether world between dreams and reality.
At first I thought they were clever and cute. I had never heard these voices before. They were like new friends at the mucous party. They stayed for several more evenings and I kept feeling worse. I dragged through the days and lost more of the little sleep I did get.
Then one night the voice changed. It shouldn’t be called a voice at all. It was just wheezing from the bottom of my lungs which no one else could hear. But this voice was very clear and recognizable. It was my five-year-old granddaughter.
“Papa, please call home.”
At first I thought of the line from the movie ET but she sounded scared instead of motivated.
“Papa, please call home, please.”
It was so real I actually woke up, so concerned now I almost considered call my daughter in the middle of the night to make sure everyone was all right. Then I thought the phone call itself would upset her more than any upset she might be in. And if everything was all right there, then she would assume there was something wrong with me. And there was nothing wrong with me.
Oh.
Wait.
Cough. Cough.
The next day I called my doctor who checked me out and prescribed an antibiotic and prednisone. The mucous party is over, and I really do feel better.
All I’ve got to say now is if my granddaughter wants to talk to me through my wheezes in the dark, she has my loving permission.