It must be Sunday

This is me since yesterday, said Billy Connolly once.  

Hour by hour, I still feel like a rabbit in the headlights. 

The anti- biotics aren't helping Tess at all. They were a gamble, one option, in the absence of other possible treatments. 

I have a dear friend who is a GP, (and a superhero, even when she had a 1980's perm). I called her for advice last night when poor Tess was doubled over coughing. Yet again. 

If the anti-biotics are too painful on her stomach, my doc pal said we can cease trying them. They just didn't seem to be helping one millimetre.  

I like it when doctors consult. Ask the patient's opinion. Advise and support without dictating. My friend is an expert at that. 

Plan B is to try a new, stronger asthma inhaler. The prescription won't reach Boots until Monday and there are rumours of 5 day delays for regular meds. But I plan to run the gauntlet tomorrow and try and hunt it down. Maybe take it to a smaller, local chemist. 

These are long, slow days, when I'm acutely aware that there must be so, so many people who are suffering. It's as if it's hanging in the air. 

The Spring sunshine and the wood pigeon's song (3 notes on a wee wooden flute) carry on like they have enough to do, without humanity's troubles to hold them back.  

I love my family. I'm telling them more often.