sleep.
eat, or not eat. (mostly the latter.)
fondly reminisce about oxygen.
make up lots jokes along the lines of “Oh my god I can *not* believe that I fucking have pneumonia. how the fuck did this happen!”
stop for a minute to catch my breath.
unleash cunning trans woman sense of humor when chest-xray-technician repeatedly asks me: “so you’re absolutely sure your not pregnant, right?”
recall how, as a young child, I thought that the medical condition pneumonia and the chemical ammonia were somehow interrelated.
