This is what the diagnosis said on the emergency facesheet, after I got my post-pneumonia chest film taken at work.
The atelectasis in the left lower lobe has resolved. The right, not so much. There’s a bit of fluff there, a dab of whatnot, a smudge, a blot, an unknowable Something or Other. There is no good reason for this fragment of whatever. It’s enough, though, for a referral to a respirologist (my respirologist, in fact) for a bronchoscopy, which is where the good physician put a cable of fibre optics and tiny little collection instruments down my gaw to visualize the various tube and tubules in the lungs, and it is exactly as pleasant as I describe it.
I’m not scared, exactly. Foolishly or not I don’t know enough to be frightened. How can it be otherwise? It’s still ill-defined Thing. It could be nothing or it could be Hell. But suddenly, issues of vast import seem trivial. Federal election, who cares? Taxes return — next week, if I get to it.
Maybe I will have a little Moment later, with tissues. But not right now.
Important: spouse, friends, cats, dogs, garden, family, writing. Today the rest can rot.
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On the other hand, I was able to help a close friend successfully navigate a particular dangerous place in his health in relation to the health care system today. Which leads me to a Profound, Trite, Reflection, that bad things tend to happen to people without cause or justice, but we each author what good things can happen to others.
And no, I’m not Pollyanna.
