I can't breathe. I've taken 2 doses of night time Theraflu,3 shots of cough syrup, some Tylenol and still feel like crap.
So I switched to a few glasses of red wine, (you know, do what you always do) and I still feel rotten. I think I am going to drown, I mistakenly say out loud.
Tate puts his shoes back on and walks to the front door.
What are you doing? I ask
We're going to the hospital come on, let's just get this over with.
The door closes behind him. He turns on his truck to warm it up.
I go to the little cabinet in the bathroom, pull out a 10 year old inhaler from Wiley's younger days, and take a few puffs.
Tate comes back inside. Come on- he says.
No, I just took some inhaler, feel much better now, I can breathe. . .
Blank stare with a hint of desperate rage.
I'm serious- I plead- Look I will go to the doctor tomorrow I promise and if I wake up dead in the morning you can kill me OK?
Deal he said as he went outside to turn off the truck.
It's so nice to have a man who understands me.