If given the choice between having low PFTs or getting hit in the groin with a baseball bat, I’d choose . . .

. . . maple over aluminum.

This will only hurt for the rest of your life.

Yes, even if it were swung by Sammy Sosa in his steroid-induced prime when he blasted home runs over the walls of baseball parks around the country.

Batter, batter, swing. Oh, that hurts. Fill my diaper with ice again, please, Honey Bunny. 

But it still wouldn’t hurt as much as low PFTs and poor lung function.

After two weeks of prednisone highs, lows, and mediums, and every shade of gray, the moment of truth came today when I blew into the tube for what felt like the millionth time, but did not ring the bell and did not win the giant stuffed panda for my honey.

It’s such a sickening feeling to blow like Popeye, rush around to look at the numbers on the computer screen and lose your breath again. Batter, batter, swing. Oh, that hurts. Sammy, how much of that stuff did you inject?

But I didn’t go to jail.

No, nope. I did not.

My small airways tossed me a “get out of jail free” card.

Yes, they did, showing minor improvement, which was enough to give the doctor, ever the optimist, hope I might be improving after starting the Cayston this week.

And in the surprise of the week, he would not admit me. No matter how I much I tried to convince him (another way of saying “beg”), he would not fall prey to my Jedi mind tricks, or a $20 bill, which always puts a smile on the valet’s face, but failed to sway a man with M.D. in his title.

However, we did reach a compromise that I would start Cipro to see if it could team up with Cayston for a total ass-kicking party of the germ invaders in my lungs.

Next week, I’ll return and blow with all of my might until my face bulges bullfighter red and every vein in my neck turns to rope.

And if by some miracle, my lung function should return, I’ll be so thrilled I’ll whistle for my magic rainbow unicorn, Peppercorn, and ride her to the mystical and distant land of McGriddleVille.

And should my numbers not take a magic leap up, I shall pick up the PFT laptop like a 60s rockstar might pick up a piece of hotel furniture and let it fly, teaching it the greatest lesson of all: if you have nothing nice to say, lie.

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6 thoughts on “If given the choice between having low PFTs or getting hit in the groin with a baseball bat, I’d choose . . .

  1. Ugh, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to punch that laptop that gives us bad numbers. Hope the combo weaves it’s magic and you get that hall pass. Feel better UC. Jodi

  2. I’m thinking that the aluminum may have a little bit of a chill to it which could come in handy after being struck in the groin.

  3. Dear Madman of LAShire,

    The unmissable sound of willow hitting old leathery balls sends a shudder down my spine!

    Look’s like he didn’t swing hard enough to put you in the hole though my old friend, we hope the Cipro and Cayston does the trick and the CF gremlins that live in the PFT laptop cut you a break when you repeat your blows.

    Take it easy UC

    Sir Sean

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