End of story.
We’ve driven less than three blocks away from the woman’s house when the coughing starts.
I try to get it under control, but the spasms won’t stop. The pain shears through my body, twists inside me like barbed wire.
I can’t catch my breath.
“Walt, you okay?”
I whip over to the curb, push the gearshift into Park, and shove open the door.
I’m on my hands and knees on the pavement when Liv reaches me.
“Can you breathe?”
I nod jerkily, dragging in a short breath before I start coughing again.
“Should I call 911?”
I grab her arm with one hand and shake my head. Tears and snot flow down my face as I try to regain control of my respiratory system.The coughing gets nastier for half a minute. Son of a bitch, this is the worst one yet. I hack and hack and hack until I feel like my lungs will burst out through my throat.
Liv hovers next to me, her face cluttered with worry and fear.
Finally, things start to calm down to a mere wheeze. I sit back on my heels.
“Let me get you some water.”
She dashes away. I fumble in my pocket for a handkerchief and swab at my face. My chest heaves, but the air just won’t come in fast enough. My heart thuds wildly, trying hard to push enough oxygenated blood through my veins.
As the coughing spasms subside, the pain gets worse. Sharp, jagged shards of searing pain fire through me. Hell, maybe I’m having a heart attack. But this has happened before and passed. I’m hoping it will this time.
My hand shaking, I shove the handkerchief back into my pocket and dig for the small vial of pain pills I was given when we all thought I had cancer. I try to open it. Can’t. The damned pharmacy put a childproof top on the damned thing. I’ve never had a childproof top before! Why start now? God dammit!
“Let me try.” Liv takes the vial of pills from my hand and places the water bottle there in its place.
The top is already off the bottle of water, so I sip it slowly, let it soothe my raw throat. This is by far the worst coughing jag I’ve had. My whole body shakes.
Liv doesn’t read the label on the vial. She simply opens it. “One or two?”
“Just one.” I spit the words. I’m not even sure I should still be taking these with this new potential diagnosis.
“Open your mouth.”
I don’t argue. I comply. She pops the pill into my mouth, and I swallow. Follow with a swig of water. My eyes close in blessed hope. It takes a few minutes, maybe twenty, but relief will come.
“I’m taking you one of two places,” she says firmly. “To your doctor’s office or the ER. Which will it be?”
“Home.” I grab my open vehicle door and pull myself up. My body trembles. “Please, Liv, don’t argue with me.”
Her face says she needs an explanation now. I shake my head. “I just need to get home. I’ll tell you everything then.”
“Can you drive?”
“Better not,” I confess.
She doesn’t attempt to lead me like a crippled old man. Instead she walks next to me all the way around the vehicle, opens the passenger side door, and waits for me to climb inside. Once I’m seated, she closes the door and returns to the driver’s side.
While she climbs in and adjusts the seat, I shove the bottle of water into a cupholder in the console and fidget with my seat belt. I can breathe fairly easily now. The pain spike is leveling off, not gone by a long shot but not worsening.
