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Hiatus 2: The attack of the flowers


It’s been a particularly bad spring for pollen, dust and bushfires in New South Wales.

This was going to be a lighthearted post full of self-deprecating and self-pitying humour in which I would describe my last six weeks of allergic reactions and how even one of my rabbits has been prone to sneezing fits of late (not the one that has been prone to epileptic fits).

But today I visited a friend in hospital and allergies just aren’t funny anymore.

I suspect I’ll be writing a lot more about Les Foster soon, but for now I’ll just say he is a friend with a lot of medical problems. He only ended a two month stay in hospital a little over a week ago, getting back just in time for his 60th birthday party next Thursday.

Or so we thought.

When he arrived home the atmospheric pollen count was through the roof and the air full of bushfire smoke. A few days later he had his first serious asthma attack for years.

A very serious asthma attack.

He is out of intensive care now but a week after the attack he has still not regained consciousness.

He is not expected to.

I don’t know if he’ll reach his 60th birthday but I sure won’t be having another beer with him to celebrate. I won’t be having another beer with him ever.

Yeah, I get allergies. I’ve had them all my life. They’re variously painful, uncomfortable, debilitating, embarrassing, annoying, exhausting, depressing and infuriating. But they’re still kinda funny. I can laugh at them. Usually.

But some people get much worse allergies than I do.

And I’m not laughing now.

From → autobiography, hurts

One Comment
  1. …I hope he gets well.


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