Back in the High Life

Damage to the lungs from pneumonia can take a while to heal.

Photo Source: eCureMe.com

We’ll be back in the high life again

All the doors I closed one time will open up again

Well be back in the high life again

All the eyes that watched us once will smile and take us in

—[Steve Winwood]

I went to choir practice tonight for the first time since I got sick. I haven’t had much in the way of wind, and my pitch has been flaky at best. But I was bound and determined to sing tonight.

All went pretty well. We quickly went through “The Tramp on the Street,” an old folky based on the Bible story of Lazarus (or Laz’rus, as it is spelled in the libretto. It is a fairly easy three chord song to sing, and we breezed through it.

Then we picked up the other song for Sunday—“Poor Man Lazrus.” This one tells the story of &rldquo;Lazrus” and Divies, the rich man tormented in hell while Lazarus reveled in heaven. This is a fairly difficult song to sight read, especially when you are a bad at reading music as I am. And I was the only tenor! The director had a high school alto sing with me. I was grateful for the support. I would never have picked out the part without her help. Unfortunately, we went over it again and again and again—until my lungs gave out.

I got to where I couldn’t breathe any more. My top part of my lungs were on fire. I had to bolt outside into the cold raid to have a coughing fit. I stayed there for a while, letting the cold, damp air soothe my inflamed lungs.

When I went back inside, what little pitch I had left me. All night long I had been fighting a weirdness in my vocal cords. Notes that should have felt high didn’t, but lower notes did. I couldn’t sing the lovely Mendelssohn piece we are doing later this year. (Why are classical pieces so much easier to sing than “popular” ones?)

Pneumonia

Pneumonia. It sounds like it could be a small fishing nation or a part of South America. It's not nearly so fun. I went back to the doctor today to learn that a secondary pneumonic infection has settled into my left lung. It explains why the fever is back with a vengeance and why I am suddenly so weak again.

The drugs are good. They keep me mostly knocked out. [I am posting this after the fact, but I mostly wrote it at the time—explains the disorganization and ramble, huh? No really? My normal style? Oh.]

Friday’s Feast

Appetizer: What is your middle name? Would you change any of your names if you could? If so, what would you like to be called?

I have two middle names: Lee and Anton. I think that having four names has always given me enough name flexibility that I never felt the need to change them. All four have a tradition of sorts. I sometimes write under a pseudonym, but that is primarily a marketing tool. A writer’s name is a brand. I publish nonfiction under my legal name; for fiction, I use my initials.

Soup: If you were a fashion designer, which fabrics, colors, and styles would you probably use the most?

Cottons and other natural fabrics. Whites, blacks, and primary colors. Simple designs, peasant shirts and the like.

Salad: What is your least favorite chore, and why?

Sorting socks. It is simply tedious. There are too many minute variations, too many ways to get it wrong. The socks never pair up 100%, so there are always leftovers, stragglers cluttering up the clean clothes or falling back unused into the laundry.

Main Course: What is something that really frightens you, and can you trace it back to an event in your life?

Financial ruin. I have never experienced it first-hand. When I was young and came close, my parents and circumstances softened the landing. Now days, I realize I am working without a net. What is new is that I am worried about not having a net. Before there was always time to recover.

Dessert: Where are you sitting right now? Name 3 things you can see at this moment.

I am in the bedroom, propped up on a bolster so that I can breathe. Three things that I can see:

1. My sickly reflection in the mirror
2. The top of the oak tree outside the bedroom window
3. Socks waiting patiently to be sorted