I broke down this morning and called my doctor's office to request some cough medicine. I was sick over the holiday weekend with a virulent virus, so sick that I slept a mere 3-4 hours per night due to snot drippage intent on strangling me. BWAH HAH! I emerged victorious once again! Val. Stronger than your average virus.
Because I felt so much better on Tuesday, I neglected to seek drugs during my planning period. I thought I was on the mend. Once the afternoon rolled around, I thought differently. Evening proved worse than afternoon. Night outdid evening. There I was again, unable to sleep unless sitting near upright in a recliner. Wednesday morning, I had the world by the tail. No doctor call. Wednesday night, it was deja vu all over again.
This morning, I took that bunch of bull by the horns. I called. The phone answerer asked my birthdate. Then my first name. Then my drug allergies. And said a prescription would be called in. This seemed too good to be true. I didn't even have to fake cough and describe my sputum. How could she magically deduce my name from that bit of information? Was she just shining me on? Giving me the old runaround? Getting me off the phone and then chortling to her cohorts about my gullibility?
I arrived at the pharmacy to find my bottle of Iophen waiting. It has performed admirably this evening. My wheezing has lessened. I am not drug-drowsy. My lungs do not feel like twin wet sponges.
I have a full night of sleep in my sights. I cannot decide whether to count sheep jumping over the pasture fence, rehearse my Today show interview upon the release of my all-time best-selling tome titled Complaining Will Get You Everywhere, or replay my favorite scenario of how I take over the world.
The ZZZZs will not elude me tonight.