. . . maple over aluminum.
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.