the joy of tenacious throat boogers

I've been up since about 3:30 this morning, still coughing and hacking.  This morning's episode was especially exciting because the coughing fit was paired with a nosebleed.  It was good times.

I'm medicating with the two drugs in my pregnant repertoire, but with minimal relief.  I've gone through two boxes of tissues in four days.  I wake up countless times either coughing or wincing because the coughing has irritated my round ligaments.  My voice is raspy and virtually gone by the end of the day.

I'm obviously the picture of health because people keep telling me that I look pale or cock their head to the side and ask how I'm feeling.  These are usually well-meaning people just passing through who haven't heard me hack up a lung yet.

I asked one of the physicians today to go back into the recesses of his mind to that one semester in medical school that he did his OB rotation, then quizzed him to see if he could think of anything else I could take.  He laughed at me and said that he wouldn't give me anything if I was pregnant in 1972, but encouraged me to call my OB to see if anything had changed since then.

I had planned on doing that anyway, so I did.  I explained my dilemma to the secretary who takes phone messages.  I explained in a broken voice what was going on, and ended it with "just tell them that I am dying".  She laughed.  I explained that I was very serious and to please write exactly that on the message.  In no uncertain terms, I need some kind of cough medicine that will work.

About five hours later his nurse calls me back.  By this time I sound incredibly awful.  I pointed this out to his nurse, who agreed with me.  And then laughed at me.  There's nothing else I can take.  At this point I laughed because I was sure this was some kind of joke.

It wasn't.

So now I've been blessed to add benadryl to my arsenal, which I've been told will probably not make any difference.

By this time of the day, which is still early to everyone in the universe except my father (who has undoubtedly been in bed since 7), my voice is gone.  When I think about talking, I cough.  The Hater and I have taken up sign language, which is special because his ASL database is limited to "more", "help", "all done", and "I love you".

About an hour or so ago, when I could still talk, I offered again to sleep in the other bedroom so I wouldn't keep him up coughing.  He's still holding out, insisting that I don't bother him... but I know I do.

I've learned a very important lesson out of all of this:  

I don't think I would have made a very good pioneer woman.