Catarrh

Cattarh.

And I don't mean Qatar.

It started a couple of days ago with a cough that rapidly became emphysematic. It was surely the consumption. Or a brain tumor.

I kept expecting Musetta, Rodolfo, and Colline to show up to sing tragic arias as I lost what little strength was left.

(Have you ever wondered why, in "La Boheme," if Mimi is dying of tuberculosis, her friends encourage her to *sing* when she has trouble even breathing? I mean, what's up with *that*?)

My boss suggested I go to the Troop Medical Clinic (TMC).

I demurred.

After all, if SFC McG can get through this on his own, I surely can!

It then moved into a sore throat. Not just any little annoyance, but the kind that leaves one cursing the world for having salivary glands in the first place. The kind that has one wondering if someone needs to come up with a Preparation H for the *upper* digestive tract.

MSG A, the NCOIC (non-commissioned officer in charge) of the Chaplain Cell here, took me to see the folks in the Division Surgeon's section. The doc who was there gave me some Cepacol.

The problem with Cepacol is that you have to put it in your mouth in order to get it to work. Isn't that a design flaw, when the problem is stuff in one's mouth going down the throat in the first place?

By the way, the doc who saw me is a psychiatrist.

No comments, please.

The sore throat is actually better, but now I'm down for the count at the moment with a sinus crud that had my face feeling as though it would explode at any moment last night. As if each movement of my head might result in the fate of the nefarious businessman in "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade," just before the ancient Knight observes drily, "He chose.... poorly."

No over-the-counter medications on hand.

No sleep, either.

I surrendered this morning and went to the TMC.

They gave me some stuff to take, but I was secretly hoping there was something they could lance, like my eyeballs, just to relieve the pressure, and give me some immediate relief. Alas! That was not to be.

Now the headache has moved more globally, and the floodgates of my nostrils only open occasionally, but still with exudate that makes my microbiologist's heart flutter. However, that seems to happen without warning, and with great urgency.

As an aside, it's amazing how raw skin can become from having to use 'facial quality tissue.' The stuff here must have microscopic barbs engineered into it. (There are many uses for this 'tissue' -- think about it.)

Yet, there's never enough of it around when it's needed. How does that work?

My boss ordered me to go back to my CHU this morning, so once the folks who process the paperwork I do got their stuff done (I think they were all off watching the Olympics, it took them so long), I went to lunch with SFC McG and then came back here for a nap.

It's now time for dinner.

Naps are a very spiritual experience.

But all in all, I'd rather be in Qatar....

Blessings and peace to one and all,


Fr. Tim, SJ

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