I’m not getting better fast enough. I think it’s because my immune system is already dealing with living with a cat, so the allergic reactions plus the cold equals Twin C feeling like crap. I’m waiting for the cough that actually brings up one of my lungs.
In order to stave off the hacking fits, I went to the drug store and bought my absolute least favorite thing in the universe - Robitussin. I had searched and searched for anything in pill form that would deal with coughs that didn’t have pseudoephedrine in it - it makes me as high as a kite (no Sudafed at work!) - but there wasn’t anything to be found. Curse you, Duane Reade. So I bought a small bottle of that nasty nasty liquid, and took some about an hour ago. It’s not quite as disgusting as I remember from my childhood, but close. It’s also a lot thicker than I remember. It does seem to be working, at least.
(UPDATE: Apparently, Robitussin makes me high as well. So much for getting anything else accomplished at work today.)
Mom used to love to pour Robitussin down our throats quite a bit as kids when we were sick. Why she never bought us Dimetapp instead, which was at least a tasty grape flavor, I’ll never know. I also remember taking Triaminic, which was sometimes gross and sometimes okay. But Robitussin was always always atrocious, which is why I still hate it.
It also reminds me of a childhood story, one which may or may not have scarred me to this very day. Twin A has asthma, and when we were younger, before all them high falootin’ inhalers were developed, his treatment included not only being forced to breathe medication through a bizarre electric aerating machine, but a number of liquid medicines to take as well. One afternoon I was watching TV in the den, and I heard Mom calling for Twin A to come take his medicine, but he wasn’t responding. She appeared in the den with a spoonful of something noxious, and started heading towards me with it. Realizing she had us confused and was going to try to make me take A’s medicine, I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t A, but I panicked in the thought of having to taste whatever was in that tablespoon (to me it was a gallon), and all I could think of to say was “Wrong child! Wrong child!” which I kept repeating emphatically. As my mouth was open while saying it, Mom shoved the medicine in. I think I probably spat it out as she realized what she had done.
I don’t blame her. She had probably taken some Sudafed herself.