Four weeks of allergic bronchitis has finally caught up with me. 

It became obvious even to me on Wednesday that it was time to seek medical assistance.  This is a huge admission.  When you work in the medical field, you view doctors with a level of suspicion akin to that attributed to car mechanics.   You just KNOW they are going to run too many expensive tests to tell you what you know anyway and recommend fixes that outstrip your pocketbook.  The diagnostics are even frighteningly similar.

The verdict?  Either I have pleurisy or a fractured rib (from the coughing).  She’s treating me for the pleurisy.  Why?  Because you can’t do anything about the rib.  (Welcome to the real-life version of House.)

Oh.  And I needed a flu shot.  Because I have a son in that cesspool alternatively named daycare.

So I get a shot in my arm, a shot in my hip, and no less than FIVE prescriptions designed to empty my wallet.   I filled them all, except the $60 cough syrup.  I am simply not coughing $60 worth.

Among the array of drugs in the bag handed back to me by the pharmacist is a one-week course of steroids to reduce the inflammation in my lungs.  Which, would be dandy, except for one little problem.

Steroids suppress the immune system.

And how do vaccinations work?

By stimulating the immune system.

Thus, to cure my lungs, I must render my flu shot worthless.

So, the lesson for today is:

 If you put your trust in someone with four years of medical school and a prescription pad, don’t forget to read the labels.

Just in case.

(I have to say, the narcotic painkillers, however, are quite nice.)