Late Night Latte

I have allergies. Okay, I also have asthma. I’ve been inhaling various noxious things from tiny canisters for years.

About three months or a year ago (really, I have no idea) I quit using my daily inhaler. And nothing changed. Didn’t use the ‘as needed’ inhaler any more — in fact, possibly less. Occasionally slept with a cat or two — a sure fire trigger. Granted, I’m usually in a antihistamine haze any time a cat is within shedding distance, but seriously, no wheezing, no sign of respiratory distress.

So today I truck into to see the fine Dr. E for my annual battery of breathing tests and a slightly overdue allergy shot. After stressing about it all night, I decided to confess my lackadaisical approach to maintenance medications. Bad move.

I took three breathing tests instead of the usual one. I passed them all — just not as well as I passed them last year. That’s when the scolding started. Was I aware that my lung capacity this year is 20% less than last year at this time? Did I want to guess what caused this? Why did I just quit taking the meds? What if I ‘over-exerted’ and my rescue inhaler hadn’t worked? That could have led to full-on respiratory distress… blah, blah, blah.

Alright already. I am a bad patient. I am a patient in denial.

I blame all of this on cats. That’s the only reason I ever found out I had asthma — come out as a lesbian, discover that 80% of lesbians have cats that sleep with them… well, figure it out. What other choice did I have?

I just mailed the stupid prescriptions off. They’ll arrive when I’m in CA next week — and the tiny little metal canisters will be sitting in a metal mailbox, baking, expanding, hopefully not exploding, until I get back.