I haven’t talked here about how I came down with what my doctor thinks was H1N1 virus about three weeks ago, which was complicated when it turned into pneumonia and has now been complicated by what seems to be a sinus infection along with possible continued lung involvement.

I was bedridden — couch-ridden, to be more exact — for the first two weeks but am able to do some things now here at home. (I might not be “able to do some things” as much as I am getting so cagey that I am “forcing myself to do some things” in order to maintain my sanity.)

I’ve been on an anti-viral medicine and two antibiotics, as well as a number of cough suppressants, inhalers and other medicines to help with the symptoms and reduce my congestion and lung inflammation. But every time I think I am on the mend, my incessant coughing and other symptoms remind me that I am in fact so not on the mend.

I was given orders to get a chest x-ray today if I had not improved. I had to go to the hospital for that test this evening, after several rounds of coughing spells and spasms. The radiologist said I have “long, beautiful lungs” and that “nothing stood out” as being abnormal. My doctor has to interpret the results tomorrow.

This bites. I could almost pull off going about my daily business at this point, or at least starting back in on some of my daily routines — and I am very much eager to get back to my life — but the fact that every other hour or so I have a 10- to 30-minute coughing spell that has me bent over gasping for breath and literally coughing so hard I am gagging makes daily activities impossible. I am stuck here for now, with my writing and internet connection to comfort me, with my hand puppets to play with me, and with stacks of poetry books to entertain me.

I guess that means I am still down for the count. And I can handle that; I really can handle being ill. I just want to know what the count actually is: How high will I have to count before I am well again? 10? 23? 57?

(As an aside, many poetry collections are even more rewarding reads once my cough suppressant with codeine kicks in. Though I have woken in the morning thinking, “That book I read last night was the best book of poetry I’ve ever encountered” only to peruse it again in an unaltered state and have no idea what I saw in it the night before. Sort of like beer goggles and dating, I suppose. I should call them my poetry-enhancing “narcotic goggles.”)