Despite reports to the contrary, I do not have the plague.
I also don't seem to have a bacterial infection.
Nope, what I have, ladies and gentlemen, is asthma.
Now, this is not exactly news. I was given this diagnosis when I was...twelve? thirteen? Anyway, a while ago. My horrible allergist told me to get rid of my cats and that I was going to have to have shots and when I told him I was afraid of needles, he said "You should be afraid of not being able to breathe." Uh, yeah, thanks, that helps. As you might imagine, I refused to ever see him again, and what were my parents going to do, drag me?
Aside from some minor inconvenience in grade school gym, asthma has not been a big deal in my life. I haven't had an inhaler in at least ten years, and I've never missed it. Ventolin gave me the shakes and made my heart race, and it tasted like rubbing alcohol. Bleah. But I've been home and out of breath and tired for going on a week now, and when the doctor prescribed it for me again, I went and filled my prescription.
They've changed the propellant so that it doesn't destroy the ozone layer anymore, and they've changed the cap at the end so that it took me a minute to figure out how to get it off, but it still tastes like rubbing alcohol. Hooray for the little things you can always count on.
I feel pretty crappy, and I don't like having a stupid inhaler. No one does. It's just that I had gotten to the point where I told doctors about it when they asked, but I was starting to think that they'd been wrong, and what I had was an allergic reaction to volleyball.
I suppose it's one more thing I can claim to need a toolbelt for at work. Do you suppose they'd let me wear a holster?