I had a terrifying experience last night. No, John Ashcroft did not emerge from the shadows and dance a jig; I did not see George Bush naked or attempt conversation with Rush Limbaugh.

Instead, I almost died.

Melodramatic, but possibly accurate. I was asleep, dreaming (about what I do not remember), when the next thing I knew, I was stumbling across my apartment, unable to breathe. I was having and asthma attack, only I do not have asthma. Unable to inhale, I could only engage in spasmodic wheezing broken by deep, horrible coughs. The reflexive gasp of the coughing was actually the only way I could get air into my lungs, and even then not much of it. My vision began to dim around the edges, and I was certain I was going to pass out, and that if I did pass out, unable to breathe, that that would be all she wrote.

Finally, after an eternity, I was able to breathe again. Only tiny inhalations at first, but eventually everything settled down. A new dilemma arose: what to do? Go to the hospital? Call Rob? Instead, I sat up the rest of the night and called my doctor in the morning. She was supposed to call me back but has yet to do so.

I have been sick for a month now, and nothing is helping. Last night was just icing on the cake. My doctor is mystified (I actually had a thorough examination yesterday afternoon), and I am frustrated and depressed.

You are cordially invited to my pity party.

BYOB.