One door closes, another opens. I've always loved the symmetry of those words and the belief they establish. My only admonition is don't have your fingers inside either door jamb when those doors close.
In one instance last week I didn't take my fingers out. I had been off kilter with who-knows-what since the previous Wednesday night when I wrapped myself in a plush Four Season's Hotel robe to offset chills that had nothing to do with the room's temperature.
Fast forward to Monday - after three sleepless nights, a sustained fever and a cough that could put foghorns out of work I called my doctor to see whether I should wait until the next day for an appointment or go to the ER. Her vote, ER. And that's where I intended to go except that between our call and my arrival near the ER in Streeterville my temperature scaled back from 103.5 to under 101.
I can wait, thought I. So I gingerly notched another night free of sleep. Unintentional, of course, thinking that I was on the road to recovery.
Alas, my optimism was misguided. And so the next morning I worked the lines trying to get my late afternoon appointment to an earlier slot. The effort worked as I traded up in the draft from a 4p slot to a pre-noon slot. Dressed in jeans and a lacoste shirt, I was unfortunately underdressed for the wait. Not in terms of quality, but simply in terms of quantity. In an effort to offset the arctic chill in the waiting room I sat near the sunny window withdrew my arms tortoise-like into my sleeves. It produced the desired effect, stopping the shivering.
The appointment went fine. He checked me out, noted that both lungs were congested with pneumonia, had some blood work and an x-ray done and sent me on my way with prescriptions for an antibiotic and cough syrup.
Armed with awareness and infused with meds I thought okay, now starts the path home both literally and figuratively. Except not.
Despite a degree of leverage in my favor with the meds the next several hours proved hellish with an unabated cough that had me doubled over and sleepless. In the midst of this campaign my primary care physician called my wife and said go to the ER if there are any breathing difficulties.
Which there were and so we did. And later that night the ER proved to be but two letters in the word ENTRY which is what I made into the hospital.
Fast forward - I spent two nights in the hospital, dripping fluids and antibiotics in a vessel dehydrated by successive days of fever. With each passing moment I reclaimed a degree of my previously vibrant self. But the crazy thing about any sickness is that it knocks you way out of the box.
Two days before I started to put the moan in pneumonia I was working out, flicking weights like nobody's business. Today the prospect of such an effort makes me wince as the 16 pound bowling ball that has taken up residence on my sternum starts to pulsate punishment.
Maybe like some of you reading this, I am never sick. So the lexicon of recovery is foreign to me. So no doubt I deviated from protocol when on Saturday I met with buying clients to view luxury Gold Coast condos in the morning, twice showed my East Village listing at 1728 Huron in the afternoon, showed my great Bucktown penthouse duplex after 2p and fielded a go-nowhere offer on one of my single family home listings.
I couldn't wait to gain the state of supine after that day. I just wonder how long that state needs to be maintained to regain my footing. I am more than fortunate with my more than awesome wife Nicole helping me each step. She has plied upon home-made juices and soupls, poultices and all variety of TLC that stuns me to silence.
Time will tell. As will I.
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