That's the bad news. The good news is I'm not horking up internal organs any more, and I can breathe without feeling like I've got bits of broken glass where they shouldn't be. Even felt good enough yesterday to leave the apartment to go shopping and do laundry, both of which needed to be done in the worst possible way.
On the down side, it's hard to walk from the door to the mailbox without wheezing, and all the various medications are making me feel almost as crappy as the damn bacteria. Plus I still sound like a frog being strangled at the bottom of a deep well when I try to talk. Thank God for Netflix, that's all I can say.
Liam the kittycat has been absolutely delighted to have me home for the past three weeks, at least. Poor little guy is going to think I've abandoned him once I start working again. He follows me around the apartment and curls up on my lap when I crash on the couch. He's in the habit of sitting on the edge of the tub when i shower and watching me with this expression:
Doctor's appointment again the day after tomorrow. Probably more chest X-rays and stuff. If they don't like what they see, the next step may be to go into the hospital for IV antibiotics. Ugh.