Wednesdays are usually the time when we celebrate reaching the mid point of the working week. The “hump day,” as it has come to be known, is a time when we start to see compelling evidence that the weekend might get here eventually. What a time to be alive.
For me, the last three Wednesdays in a row have bought on chronic coughing fits. I don’t know why. I’ve eliminated diet, environment and lifestyle as factors, so I’m left with some rather untenable conclusions about what might be causing it. As the great leader of men once said:
“If we eliminate the impossible, then whatever remains, however unlikely, will probably eventually show up on Garry’s blog”.
It started way back when I was on my last week away in Wadeye before starting my new role which leaves me in the city more or less permanently. I was still battling the cold I picked up on my epic weekend of unadulterated awesomeness in Queensland, so when my lungs began a concerted effort to turn themselves inside out after work on the Wednesday, I took it in my stride, hacked up half my trachea, curled up in a ball and cursed my own existence. Nothing out of the ordinary there.
Last week, after a tragically unsatisfying game of indoor beach volleyball, I drove home, showered, and then coughed for a steady half an hour before eventually spitting out a couple of hundred grams of sand.
It’s not unusual to find sand in unexpected places following a volleyball match, but two dilapidating coughing fits in a week left me more than a little concerned. I booked in to see the doctor for a check up. I had some juvenile Asthma when I was… a juvenile, and I’ve always dealt with the fact that I have unusually shallow lungs (not to mention my personality).
Doctors always seem to me to be much more interested in just about anything else than in what their patients think might be wrong. We spent a good twenty minutes discussing my diet, lifestyle, blood pressure and family history, which was all fine as I asked for a general check-up. My body mass index suggests I’m still slightly overweight for my height, which I already knew, but did reveal to me that I’m approaching the solution from entirely the wrong angle. I’ve been putting all my energy into losing weight and eating properly. What I should be doing is concentrating on growing taller.
We chatted for a few more minutes about how I probably don’t need to be worrying about cholesterol, blood pressure (mine was slightly high, but apparently that could be accounted for by the stress of meeting a new doctor. This strikes me as a little odd, not to mention a violation of the Hippocratic oath) or various types of cancer at my age.
Finally the doc told me off for not eating breakfast, instructed me to eat more fibre, do more exercise… and gave me a clean bill of health. According to her I was the healthiest person she had seen all week. Of course, it was only Monday lunchtime, so that’s not such a big deal.
“What about the Asthma?” I asked, helpfully.
“Oh yeah, I forgot about that,” replied the doctor, encouragingly. “You probably don’t have that.”
So there you have it. Or not, as the case may be.
Last night before volleyball I had another coughing fit. If the doctor is to be believed, there’s nothing wrong with me. So I’m left with only one viable conclusion:
I’m allergic to Wednesdays. Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs