I have pneumonia.
I thought I might have pneumonia. I’ve had pneumonia five times in the past 20 years, including once during Elysha and my tenth-anniversary weekend celebration in Kennebunkport, Maine (where I famously kept my illness a secret for the entire weekend to avoid spoiling the vacation).
When I went to the urgent care facility on Thursday morning to get examined, the doctor asked me to describe my symptoms. I told her that it had started with a fever about five days ago, followed by a nagging cough, headaches, a loss of appetite, and some of the worst night sweats of my life.
She asked me if I had felt short of breath.
I had not.
She asked me if I had felt overly fatigued.
I had not.
She tested me for COVID and the flu (both negative), checked my temperature (normal), listened to my lungs (which sounded perfectly clear), and listened for wheezing (none).
“Still,” she said. “It’s odd that you had the fever before the cough. And those night sweats are a little strange, too. It’s almost certainly a virus, but I’d like to get a chest X-ray, just in case.”
This meant asking an X-ray technician at an urgent care facility in a neighboring town to drive over to administer my X-ray, so the request wasn’t without hassle.
I agreed to wait.
When the doctor examined the X-rays an hour later, she saw no sign of pneumonia. “I’m going to send the X-rays over to a radiologist to examine, just in case, but they look perfectly clear to me. It’s almost certainly a virus.”
She decided to do a PRC test for COVID, the flu, and RSV, just to be sure the rapid tests were accurate, then she sent me home with orders to drink lots of fluids, take Tylenol if needed, and rest.
I was pulling into the driveway when my phone rang. It was the doctor. “You have pneumonia,” she said. “The radiologist spotted it. I still can’t see it, but that’s why I’m not a radiologist. It’s not too bad, and we’ve caught it early, which is great. I’ve already ordered you a round of antibiotics.”
I know it’s the doctor’s job to accurately diagnose illness and prescribe the best course of treatment, but I couldn’t help but notice that my doctor’s diagnosis was only correct because she listened carefully to everything I said, processed the information thoughtfully, and twice decided to take an action “just in case.”
Pnueomia is no joke. I know that I spent a weekend in Maine hiding it for Elysha (and went to a Guns ‘n Roses concert the following weekend while still suffering from its lingering effects), but complications from pneumonia also killed my mother 15 years ago and can be deadly if not treated properly.
In fact, it’s one of the leading causes of death in the United States.
My doctor actually gave me the pneumonia vaccine about a decade ago because of how often I seem to contract the illness.
“I had no idea there even was a pneumonia vaccine,” I told the doctor as she was injecting me.
“You shouldn’t,” she said. “I only give this to women in their seventies and now you.”
So it’s no joke.
It’s also apparently time for a booster.
This is why I’m so deeply appreciated my doctor’s ability to listen carefully, proceed thoughtfully, and make those “just in case” decisions for me.
It’s not hyperbole to say that she may have saved my life.
