And here I thought I had it in the bag

It's been a rough couple of weeks; a horrible cough partnered with dizziness and nausea.

It’s been a rough couple of weeks over here.
A horrible cough rolled in — the kind that rattles your ribcage and makes you wonder if a lung might actually come flying out — partnered with bonus dizziness and nausea just for good measure.

No lozenge touched it.
No over-the-counter magic potion dulled it.
Tea, steam, Vicks, humidifiers ... none of it made a dent.

After a lot of “negotiations” (read: arguing with love), and a few choice words tossed back and forth, we finally ventured out to the Urgent Care Center.
(And by "ventured," I mean sleeves pulled down, don’t-touch-anything like we were moving through a biohazard zone.)

One chest X-ray and two prescriptions later, we practically sprinted out the door, happy to have avoided any “germy” waiting room regulars.
A quick bite to eat, a drive-thru run to the pharmacy, and we were back home — lounging in the man cave, crossing every finger and toe that the meds would kick in and we could move on with life.

Spoiler alert: they didn’t.

The cough didn’t just stay — it got worse.
Bad enough that for the first time in this entire messy journey, I was genuinely scared.
Sitting up didn’t help.
Raising the head of the bed (doctor’s suggestion) didn’t help.
Inhaler didn’t help.
Steam showers didn’t help.
Seriously, it felt like we were out of ideas.
And with MSA riding shotgun, coughing fits aren’t just annoying — they’re dangerous.

So ... off to the pulmonologist we go.

Fun fact about MSA: It has a reputation for screwing with your vocal cords — weakening them, making them misalign just enough to cause a constant “tickle” in your throat. Cue endless coughing.

Pulmonology’s verdict?
"We’re going to refer him to speech therapy to help control the cough."

Wait, what?
Control it?
Can we maybe find out what’s causing it before we decide how to just "live with it"?
Because unless speech therapy comes with magic fairy dust, this didn’t feel like an answer.

Luckily, our neurologist — who has been the Captain of the Winnebago on this entire chaotic medical road trip — stepped in.
He read the pulmonology notes, raised an eyebrow (at least in my mind he did), and fast-tracked a referral to ENT for a throat videography to actually see what’s happening.

Good move.

So, picture this:

We’re in the ENT office, watching a scope snake down the big guy’s throat.
(Don't recommend if you have a weak stomach.)
The vocal cords?
Perfect.
Lining up like Jean-Claude Killy’s skis at the Olympic downhill — tight, smooth, no gaps.
We were actually starting to breathe a little easier (pun intended).

Then the doctor said it:
"Hmm... there’s a darkening in your throat. Are you a smoker?"

WHAT?!

Cue heart stopping.
Cue gut punch.
Cue my brain going completely offline.

"Darkening like what?"
"Well, darkening we usually associate with malignancy..."

Malignancy.
The M-word.
The word no one is ever ready for, even if you’ve been fighting other battles for years.

Suddenly, everything else faded away — the coughing, the dizziness, the nausea — replaced with one blaring thought:
Did we just stumble from one life-altering diagnosis into another?

We’re still reeling from it.
Still in that weird space between horrified and desperate for second opinions.
Still wondering — is this darkening just bruising from the constant, bone-rattling coughing?
Is it something that will heal?
Or has the universe just handed us another cruel card?

Can I call timeout?
Can I get a do-over?

Because none of this feels real.
And none of it feels fair.

But we do what we always do — we keep walking forward.
One breath, one test, one prayer at a time.

And then — finally — a breath of grace.

After additional testing and some anxious days of waiting (and a whole lot of worst-case-scenario Googling that I don’t recommend),
it turned out...

it was nothing.

Likely just irritation and bruising from weeks of brutal coughing.
Not cancer.
Not another terrifying road to walk down.

Just a reminder (like we needed one) that sometimes life piles up, sometimes it shakes you to your core — and sometimes, mercifully, it lets you step back from the ledge.

And this time, we got to step back.
Exhausted, grateful, and holding each other just a little bit tighter.

Because no matter what else happens, every clear day is a gift.