My fever from the flu broke a few days ago, but the cough in my lungs has only deepened. Last night, at rehearsals for my play “Last Day At Maple View Farm,” which premieres tonight at Hubbard Hall, I could hardly stop coughing, I could tell something was wrong. My nurse practitioner Karen Bruce, my primary health care practitioner, was off yesterday, I got an appointment to see her early this morning.

I am fortunate beyond belief to have this competent, experience and direct health care professional to help me, she has saved my life twice now, once when she bludgeoned me into managing my diabetes, the other when she refused to accept my theory that I had asthma and ordered me to the hospital for open heart surgery. I trust her completely, and she took one look at me and said I was heading quickly towards pneumonia. I am on anti-biotics, some steroids and an inhaler.

Viral bronchitis, getting nasty. Karen and I always have a blast when we get together, she is a voracious reader and writer, I am grateful for her. Most people bitch and whine about their health care, but mine has come through for me in the past few years, my diabetes numbers are back to normal six months after my surgery and my heart is roaring along.

I knew I had to go see Karen because there is a Q&A with the audience after each performance of my play, and I have to get this cough under control. Hopefully it will be by tonight. Karen  said the prednisone will get my blood sugar up again, she suggested I not take my blood tests for the next few days, “it will just make you crazy,” she said. True enough.

My big lesson about health care is this: see women if you can, they talk and listen. See nurses, they are more available than doctors. If you are feeling poorly, tell a woman, not a man, a man will just tell you he is feeling worse than you are.