I’m afraid to try to go to sleep. I think the cold, which has left the other parts of my body, has settled deep into my lungs and turning into bronchitis. Dr. J gets to see us tomorrow morning. She knows us. She knows to let us mutter and whine about all the physical ailments we (suspect we) have, and why they’re fatal. We’ve read it on the Internet and we know.
When we run out of steam on our recitation of ills, she patiently examines us, explains that nobody she’s ever seen has died of an ingrown toenail, tells us what is really wrong with us, and provides appropriate treatment. I can’t say for her, but we ourselves are looking forward to another session of this. Especially the part where she tells us we’re not going to die. Of this, at any rate. Not yet, at least.
Maybe the treatment she advises will even cause us to feel better enough to quit using the royal “we” in our sentences.
white pebble 