The Phantom Doorbell

There exists in the medical literature no condition quite so perfectly designed to transform a fully functioning adult into a sodden heap of misery as acute sinusitis during pollen season. I awoke this morning to this precise affliction.

It wasn't the stuffy nose, or the gentle chirping of birds, or the warm rays of the morning sun that woke me. It was the unmistakable chime of a doorbell. Clear as crystal, it rang through the house with the confident authority of someone who knows exactly which button to press and how firmly to press it.

Good Morning, Kitten

I lay there, cocooned in blankets, mentally running through the list of people who might be calling at such an hour. The postal carrier with a package requiring a signature? Unlikely. A neighbor in distress? Possible, though neighbors in genuine distress tend to pound on doors. Jehovah's Witnesses? Too early even for them unless their legendary zeal prompted a prophet to expect the second coming before lunch.

The rational course of action would have been to get out of bed and investigate. However, my body, usually a reasonably reliable vehicle for transporting my brain from place to place, had become an unresponsive sack of sand. My head felt like someone had used a bicycle pump to inflate it to maximum pressure.

I decided to wait for a second ring. Surely, anyone with legitimate business would ring again. Minutes passed. No second ring came.

"Curious," I thought, in the way Captain Smith of the Titanic might have thought "Curious" when the helmsman reported a big white thing looming in the darkness. You might guess the absence of a second ring allowed me to dismiss the matter and go back to sleep, but no. It merely sparked a debate with Princess Amy about whether I'd imagined the first ring the way I imagined all those mystery voices in the past.

Long-time readers of The Circular Journey may recall previous episodes in which my brain manufactured voices, footsteps, and catfights at the moment of waking. My semi-conscious mind has a flair for audio production, causing me to wonder how I might use an AI agent to create a podcast for my imaginary companion.

Still contemplating the doorbell conundrum, I made my first attempt to rise, and it was then my body began complaining of its various ailments. My blocked sinuses turned me into a mouth breather. My throat felt as though I'd gargled with crushed gravel. And when I coughed, it sounded like someone trying to start a rusty chainsaw.

"Not again," I groaned, in blatant denial of the annual ritual my body performs when spring arrives in all its pollen-coated glory.

Acceptance and Commitment

Three hours of self-pity later, I decided that professional medical intervention was warranted. Not because I believed there was any real solution. All allergy sufferers know that seeking medical help during pollen season is largely palliative, because misery loves plenty of other sufferers in the waiting room, and because, unlike Ms. Wonder, doctors are professionally obligated to listen to your complaints.

At the Urgent Care facility, despite its name, I was informed I'd need to wait two hours before a medical professional could confirm what I already knew: that I was suffering from an excess of spring.

Rather than sit in a waiting room absorbing other people's germs, I decided to relocate to a nearby coffee shop. Once there, I nursed an extra hot latte—the hot drink helping to numb the sore throat—and I sat in the sunshine contemplating the injustice of a world where trees' reproductive activities render humans collateral damage.

When I returned to Urgent Care, I discovered they'd been looking for me, presumably concerned they'd misplaced me. Tests were conducted, and eventually, a doctor with the bedside manner of someone who has seen far too many pollen victims confirmed: acute sinusitis, courtesy of the great outdoors.

"Take antihistamines, use a nasal spray, and stay hydrated," she advised, which is the medical equivalent of telling someone whose house is on fire to consider using water and stay far away from the flames.

Shady Grove Chronicles

Back home and feeling even worse than before my medical adventure, I remembered that doorbell. Was it real? Was it the fevered imagination of a brain already under siege from histamines? Or perhaps—and I consider this the preferable explanation—it was the spirit of Grandpa Will, who used to suffer from similar springtime afflictions and might have been making his presence known to express solidarity.

In Shady Grove, where I spent my formative years, Great Aunt Maggie, who approached allergies with the same stern disapproval she applied to modern music and men who didn't remove their hats indoors, had her own remedy involving honey, horehound candy, Three Roses whiskey, and a prayer said under moonlight. It was perhaps more effective than modern medicine because the whiskey helped you care significantly less about your symptoms.

As I sit here, contemplating whether it's possible to flush one's sinuses with the sink spray, I can almost hear Great Aunt Maggie's practical advice: "Stop your whining and take your medicine. People aren't interested in hearing about your sniffling; they have plenty of problems of their own."

She would be right, of course. And yet, here I am, sharing my woes with you, my dear readers. At least I can let those of you similarly afflicted know that you're not alone in your misery. And for those blessed with immune systems that ignore pollen, consider this a reminder of how fortunate you are.

Unsolved Mysteries

As for the phantom doorbell, I consider it one of those mysteries likely to remain unsolved. Still, I can't help but wonder if, somewhere in the great beyond, Grandpa Will is having a good laugh at his little joke. I like to think so; it makes me feel just a little bit better.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to attend to my scheduled appointment with a sinus flush, a dose of self-pity, and a Smartless episode with Zoe Saldana. I was hoping to enjoy an outing for sunshine and coffee with Ms. Wonder, but her working hours have increased since her role was cut from full-time to half-time. Go figure.