At the doctor's office this morning, for my second visit, I leafed through the magazines in the waiting room. A 2014 issue of Cyclist was there, and it was packed with advertisements for impressive, £2,000 + ($3,000 +) bikes.
I wondered what it would be like to have such a bike. Just once. Unfortunately, I don't do enough riding to justify such an outlay. But recently, the equation between doing things and waiting to do them someday has started to shift. Someday is kind of now.
And maybe, I thought, once I'm well, I could try triathlon again. I could shoot for a half ironman someplace nice, like Lake Tahoe.
These idle thoughts were interrupted when the GP called my name.
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The GP listened again to my chest while I took deep breaths.
My oxygen levels, measured again with the pulse oximeter, were discouraging. They hovered around 90 or 91%, and occasionally dropped to 89%.
My breathing seemed less wheezy than yesterday, but otherwise things were much the same.
The GP again floated the idea of going to the hospital to get oxygen and potentially intravenous antibiotics. He thought the oxygen my help start to break up the junk in my lungs.
I said that I didn't feel that terrible if I was just sitting down, and that resting at home was fine. Inwardly, I didn't fancy the thought of intravenous anything. I'd only had my antibiotics and steroids for one day, so the GP thought it would be good to give them another few days to kick in. I was to return in two days.
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I read and rested in the afternoon, and picked up my children from their day camp. In the evening, the sun peaked out at around 9:20 p.m. (the days are still quite long here), and cast a glow on the trees by our deck.
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