My lungs felt like they were going to explode. Twenty minutes later and I'm puffing on my inhaler like I'm a smoker with a forty year habit, downing large quantities of caffeine in an effort dilate my bronchial tubes and encourage them to accept oxygen again.
Mr. Lovinangels is upstairs right now, completing the task I started. And here I sit, lungs on fire, stranded in the midst of islands of boxes, waiting for the government approved medicine that doesn't work for me to kick in, two hours later.
I'd feel better if I was upstairs. Or at least more certain that things are moving in the right direction.
The next three days we're hosting the big yard sale, and I'm hoping this will off set the cost of the move, including the paint and floors of the new house. Yet instead of getting ready, I'm sitting here, waiting for my lungs to cool.
At least the noises erupting from my lungs are kind of cool.