I woke up one day in summer with a cough. I have been coughing now for 210 days. Every day. I have seen quite a few doctors. I have had cat scans, pet scans, MRIs, blood tests, and breathing tests. Tomorrow, I see a new pulmonologist for a second opinion, and I'm going to tell the guy to either cure me or give me the big shot. Either would be preferable to this purgatory of coughing. That's so selfish of me, isn't it? I have people who love me, care about me, and depend upon me. That's why -- in spite of everything -- I don't mean it. But it will feel good to say it.
Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
“Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.”
-- Robert Louis Stevenson
He had consumption (aka TB). Can you blame him for welcoming the grave? Below is Monet's wife on her deathbed with consumption (aka TB and aka the artists' disease). I don't have that; the symptoms don't match, but I have great sympathy for them.
Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
“Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.”
-- Robert Louis Stevenson
He had consumption (aka TB). Can you blame him for welcoming the grave? Below is Monet's wife on her deathbed with consumption (aka TB and aka the artists' disease). I don't have that; the symptoms don't match, but I have great sympathy for them.
RSS Feed
