I've become fairly convinced that I have pertussis. I've had this cough for almost two months now, and have in an exacting textbook fashion moved through the catarrhal and paroxysmal phases to finally end up in the convalescent phase, where I've been chilling for the past two or three weeks. Of course, more ominous diagnoses did cross my mind (especially after watching "The End of the Affair," after which point I briefly consider that I had only six months to live), but my symptoms are absolutely classic, and I am in Peds, after all. What kind of a Pediatrician would I be if I didn't have at least one story of the nasty bugs I've picked up from my patients, walking germ bags that they are? By the time I made my own diagnosis, it was too late to cut the symptoms off at the pass, but I'm on a course of antibiotic therapy anyway just to prevent myself infecting everyone else in the entire hospital. Unless I don't like you. Then I will subversively cough on you, launching my own miniature germ warfare.
I was in the team room of the PICU early this morning, scrolling through some vitals and coughing in a tiny little voice, like Zoolander after the coal mines, when one particularly tough-love nurse poked her head into the room and said, "You gotta be a lot more sick than that if you wanna get some sympathy around here."
Currently watching: "In the Mood for Love." I read the New York Times article about Kar Wai Wong's new movie, "2049" and my interest was piqued.