When you have as many fatal allergies as I have, one develops a certain relationship with one’s upper-respiratory system. Obsessed is a nice way of putting it. Ghoulish is perhaps more accurate. I’ve had something along the order of 40 bacterial sinus infections in my life. That’s a little more than one for every year I’ve been alive. The one thing you never forget, and I’ve confirmed this with other sufferers who might’ve benefited from a custom fit space suit every spring is the taste.
It’s musky, fungus-like, with a texture not unlike the lumps in tapioca pudding. It’s also the one symptom that cannot be counterfeited or ignored. Right up to the point one spits that telltale loogie into the desk-side waste basket, the symptoms can be explained any number of ways: “Oh it’s just a cold. Perhaps I need to up my Claritin dose. There was a lot of smoke in the club last night. Changing altitudes can ratchet up the pressure. I just forgot to neti-pot last night.”
It’s the classic delusion, explaining to your grandkids that the recurring tightness in your chest is just a pulled muscle. Because whatever the cost, you do NOT want another course of Amoxiclav. Better to weep bloody tears and try scraping your honker out with a bottle brush than spend a week on the commode.
Today I am at the crux of a decision: Do I make an appointment for 10 days of antibiotic hell, or do I attempt to let this disease run it’s course? What do you think, Internet?