Well, it seems my lungs felt left out of the other night's performance.
I've not felt ... right ... since the Great Body Clear-Out of 2012, so I finally staggered out of bed and over to my witch-doctor.
You know, when Ye Olde Potion Pusher is listening to your chest and he stays at one spot for a looooong time -- this is what us finely-trained law-enforcement types call "A Clue."
When he steps out into the hall, closes the door, and then two more people come in to listen to your chest, it becomes time to raise a finger and say, "Oi, doc. Something I need to know about?"
One chest x-ray and one blood-work later, the nurse comes in and cheerily says, "Well, your A1c is 5.4. That's some good news!"
I could have strangled her.
I've got a stomping case of aspiration pneumonia, most probably the result of something I'd rather not think about right now going a wee bit astray during the six hours of Wagnerian 'Speaking to God On The Porcelain Phone' from earlier in the week.
I'd never heard of Solu-Medrol before today, but it is apparently lovingly gathered from the fiery depths of Kilauea, gently mixed with extract of naga jolokia, and seasoned with just a pinch of thermite before being loaded into a hydraulic press and shot into my right bum cheek through a sewer pipe.
When the wee lass said, "There's probably going to be a little burn" be aware that the little darling probably referred to the sinking of the Titanic as, "A little oopsie."
Too right there's a burn. The only thing that kept me from doggie-dragging my butt across the carpet on the way to the fire extinguisher was male ego -- and that was losing the fight.
Two albuterol treatments later, some heavy-duty antibiotics, and I'm back to home. Thank various and sundry gods.
I'm going to find a bag of frozen peas and spend the rest of the day napping.