Saratoga Hospital’s Urgent Care unit was the last place we ever expected to be this afternoon.

But all through last night and this morning, my coughing got worse, and so did my breathing and the dizziness I was feeling. I had chronic bronchitis back when I smoked a lot, but I haven’t had that for many years.

Everyone around us has gotten sick, from Covid to various viruses and bronchial troubles.

I tested myself. No Covid.

As a 75-year-old man with heart disease and diabetes (I can’t take any steroids) and as someone who hasn’t slept since Friday morning, I was getting anxious.

I’m ground zero for respiratory crises, and I understand that I can’ take risks and the chances someone younger can take.

In my world, there are sicker people than me, including those who count my sicknesses so they can message me to tell me how sick I am and how often I get ill.

By noon, I was wondering if these ghouls might be right. The odd thing is that I feel very good these days; I’m walking again, my diabetes is back under control, and I feel eager to get up and work, write, do good and take photos, to be with Maria and back on the farm, which we both love so much.

But this level of sickness didn’t feel good or right, and I had a frightening thought that  I thought might end up in an ambulance with a bout of pneumonia, which for me could easily end up in the hospital or on a ventilator.

That would be a new level of seriousness for me.  And a dangerous one.

For the first time in our lives together, I told Maria I might need to get to a doctor or emergency room. The coughing was getting so violent and relentless that I was crying.

Maria said that was a good idea, and we both came up with getting to urgent Care. I’ve had great results with everything I’ve done with the Saratoga System, and I’ve come to trust it.

I was not disappointed. They seem well-trained in listening, putting me at ease, and treating me with affection and empathy. I just never feel bad in there.

People see right through older people as if they were transparent.

But I really didn’t want to go. I imagined ending up in a hospital bed with tubes coming out of my nose.

Maria was very worried; I could see it in her eyes.

She said I looked like a wax figure in a Madame  Tussaud museum; I was so pale, sweaty, and awful-looking. I first said yes and then said no , and we went back and forth.

I wasn’t that sick, I insisted; I could get better. In my head, I heard a different message. This has been going on too long and is getting worse quickly. Listen to her.

Maria knows me better than anyone in my life has ever known me. She listens to me when I need her to and ignores me when she decides to. I know to cave when she gets that forceful, which is rare.

So I did agree to go, complaining and resisting all the way.  It was like throwing sweet peas at a tank.

I loved her response. Get in the car. Let’s go. Just get in the car. I don’t care what you are thinking. You’ll feel better. We’re going; you might as well be quiet. I kept hearing listen to her; something was wrong.

So I did listen to her. And we went.

I don’t know what they feed the people in the Saratoga Hospital System, but almost everyone I meet they are efficient, courteous, and empathetic.  Perhaps they could teach the police how to do that, even in a place no one really wants to be.

I can’t quite fathom a nation that is running away from manners or civility. Claudia, our nurse, could not be more thoughtful, friendly, or efficient.

I’ve heard horror stories from almost everyone I know who has been to an Urgent Care facility anywhere – long lines, endless waiting, overwhelmed staff, bleeding people on tables for hours, even days.

This facility hadn’t gotten the message, and I suppose the fates were on our side today.

Our time in the waiting room was under four minutes; we had a gracious and warm Dr. Tetu who was thoughtful and quite clear .

She has seen this before.

I’m sure there is sometimes madness, but I bet they handle it gracefully and calmly.

The staff never makes me feel small, silly, or physically awkward. I’m not sure how they do it. But they do it, and I’m grateful, especially as an older man who sometimes feels ungainly or helpless.

I can’t quite get over this good fortune.  The place sets me at ease.

The doctor, Dr. Tetu, who saw us 15 minutes after we got into an examining room,  said she wanted me to consent to an X-ray to be sure; she went over what bronchitis was and did and said because I didn’t have a fever, she doubted we had gotten to pneumonia.

She asked if I would mind having an X-ray. What a nice way to put it. Why no, I said, not if she said I should.

She looked me over, listened to my story, and took my temperature. Her guess, she said, was that I had severe bronchitis, which seemed to be getting worse, not better.

The photograph Maria took captured the mood; in between the savage coughing bouts I was having, we were having fun.

She said I was wise to come to the hospital now before it could get worse. I looked at Maria, who smirked gleefully. I would hear about this on the way home.

Nurse Claudia had come to one of my book readings and read one or two of my books.

A couple of the other nurses had heard me on the radio talking to Joe Donahue of WAMC/Albany when we had a radio show together about dogs. Maria and I were laughing in the examining room when left alone and gossiping about the people we knew.

The time whizzed by.

A gracious X-ray tech came and got me, took me back for an X-ray, helped me get out of my shirt, and then got it back on.

Dr. Tutu said the X-ray looked perfect, and I had a  strong heart. It was bronchitis, she said; it could go on for several days; if it did, I should check with my primary physician and see where to go from there. It was just in the nick of time.

When she returned, she prescribed Benzonatate pills to ease the coughing and a humidifier to put near my bed at night. She said I should sleep upright if I could and get as much rest as I could.

I said I would appreciate sleeping a bit; she said she thought this would be possible.

On the way home, I had the worst coughing attack yet; I could barely breathe in between the hacking cough, which went on for nearly half an hour. I wondered if we would have to turn around.

Maria was getting worried, but it got better.

When we signed out, web paid the co-pay – $40 – and headed home to pick up these medicines at our local pharmacy.

I was stunned to see some insulin waiting for me at the pharmacy that cost $800 – I am in the famous hole in the donut that even Medicare Advantage patients get.

It hit me that we had just canceled this insulin, so I canceled the $800 part of that bill and bought the pills and the Albuteroil Sulfate Inhaler she wanted me to use every six or seven hours. Whew.

But I couldn’t help but think of all the people I see waiting in the pharmacy line, negotiating for a few pills and a time for their mothers or fathers or their own children. We would love to be a great country but we are not even close.

A short relief from a bill like that, I thought; I could only imagine what the new insulin I was getting would cost.

On the way home, we talked a lot about friendship and support in a marriage, and I thanked Maria for pushing me to go.

I suspect it my cough wouldn’t be serious, but it was severe enough, and now I hve to get a jump on it. I wouldn’t have wanted it to get any worse, and at least we can now relax knowing that it isn’t treating what it is.

I  said I had thanked her four or five times and said she was right. How many more times would I have to do it? She smiled, maybe once or twice. So I did.

Her favorite words are “you are right.”

We talked about how it came to be that we had fun in an Urgent Care clinic. We realized while talking that we always see it as a chance to be creative: I started looking for a good photo angle and settled on the patient chair.

Maria started sketching, and I started thinking about what I might write about this curious journey.

We don’t seem to have the grievance and

complaint gene. Mistakes happen, trouble is a part of life.

We always turn to our creativity instead. I love knowing I can write about this when I get home, and no one can tell me what to say (although some will always try.)

I wondered how a trip to Urgent Care could be fun. What was wrong with me? But there it was.

I came home much better than when I started balking and trying to flee. People showed me pictures of their kids and grandkids,  we traded the story of our lives.

As I walked out, I waved to the staff and thanked them. “You people are oddly lovely and considerate. You made me feel comfortable the minute I walked in here,” and I thanked them in the loudest voice I could manage.

They smiled back and waved to me as I went out the door.

I love my life; it is rich and eventful. I get to share it with Maria, and my healthcare instincts have grown sharper and wiser. I’m in a good place for this new chapter of my life.

I have no idea how long it will last, but I have a  plan for getting better and happier all the time, and I have some wonderful people in my life to help me get there and smack me upside the head when I need it.

I have to run now, take some pills, and inhale some Sulfate. I will sleep downstairs tonight, so I can sit up as Dr. Tutu recommended. Maria will sit on the couch next to me. If I stretch out my foot and she stretches hers, we can touch our feet together at night.

I bet I get some sleep. It was not the day we expected, but it was a good day, and I came home relived and committed to doing what I was told and getting better quickly. Just watch me.

One of my doctors told me once that I reminded her of a hound; I was off and running once I picked up the scent. And I never stopped running.

I take it as a great compliment.