Bad bones.

March 8, La Feria.

I'm breathing easier.
Turns out it was only a broken rib.
Of the pneumonia there is no trace left, the difficulty breathing is alleviated when I bend down, or compress my ribs in a specific way, as I found out by happy accident this morning waiting in the doctor's office - I finally went in for the pain in my left lung had not subsided after all this time. All the antibiotics did was make me sicker, and that coming from a nurse practitioner, a health care professional usually not inclined to poo-poo the drugs.
She was wonderful, she listened, she asked questions, and asked some more; I spent almost an hour in there and most of that was talking to her. We had looked at a clinic miles away in Harlingen then come back here as the clinic was booked, and too expensive, and then driving by we saw this unassuming clinic right here in La Feria. I went in out of desperation; the street front didn't look like much. I came out elated.
It hit me then; she was a nurse, not a doctor. It reminded me of why I wanted to have my kids in a birthing center, operated by nurse-midwives, and not a hospital with a doctor too busy to waste more than two minutes actually getting to know who I am. The cherry on top of the cake was the cost, forty dollars, probably the best-spent forty bucks of my life.
So Courtney was right, and so was my gut feeling: an extremely bad cough, such as the one I had since the beginning of January, can indeed break a bone.
Fridman laughed. I suspect he doesn't quite believe me.
But I can breathe easier; it will pass, it's just a broken bone.