Better and worse.

After some gentle nagging by my wife and boss, I have visited a medical professional. Despite my insistence to the contrary, they determined that I am not, in fact, dying. Or, at least not much faster than I ever was. They did, however, determine that I needed to breath through a tube for them, then they gave me a shot, 5 prescriptions, and reminded me of the physical I need to get (which they call something warm and fuzzy, like a "health assessment and maintenance meeting"). I will be going in soon for my least favorite of all things: bloodwork. Ah well, better a little pain now than a lot later.

I have returned to work today, in large part because I am sick of sitting around the house. What's wrong with me isn't contagious, it is, frankly, just that my lungs are defective from growing up in the industrial dump I grew up in, at a time when people didn't know what sort of damage they were doing to themselves and each other by dumping all that crap in the air. (I'd like to have a discussion with Mr. Bush about this sometime. I find his theory that it's worth trading air pollution for "economic benefits to be... troubling.)

But I digress. Frequently...

The return to work has actually been good. Being around my co-workers lifts my mood, even when nothing in particular is going on. My new boss told me that I could come in if I wanted to, but that I didn't have to. I'm glad I elected to. I needed some company. Especially after the bad news regarding my hospitalized friend, G.

G., has lost consciousness. Her husband, F., has called in the family from around the nation. While the doctors are not giving up hope, it sounds like G.'s body, especially her lungs, are hitting their limit. I am still praying for a recovery, but I am also praying that if that's not going to happen, that at the very least, she and her family don't have to ride the rollercoaster too much longer. I don't like to think of her and F. suffering. They've worked way too hard, and they deserve a better ending.

And, I can't help thinking about her lungs, suffering from cancer and now pneumonia, and my lungs, suffering from asthma. Some days, these bodies seem to be rather frustrating, almost useless. Weak contraptions. I alternately feel sorry for my poor lungs, and scold them for being so lame. If they can take the pounding of a hockey game, a mountain bike ride, hard weight training, why can't they take a little cold? Some dust? Damp air? But, then, it's not their fault. They never had a good chance.

I would like to ask G. about this sometime, but there are things she will have to leave undone if she goes soon. I guess that's how it is.