I Got WTC Cough

I've been sick for a year. That might come as a surprise to my friends, most of whom would probably say it's been much longer than that, but I mean really, physically ill. It's been a full year, with only scattered reprieves, of colds, flus, chills, aches, sore throats, coughs and insomnia.

Not that it really surprises me. It was a bad year. I started 2001 with a painful separation from my wife, then endured the depredations and prevarications of a vindictive, unstable family member. I spent much of the year homeless, out of work and going deeper into debt. I found myself in new, unfamiliar neighborhoods far from the quiet, close-knit Williamsburg community I had called home for nearly a decade. I had a bicycle, a backpack and a cellphone, and not much else. I was edgy, depressed, manic. I don't think I put more than two continuous hours of sleep together for the entire year. Of course I was sick.

I tried to stay healthy, I really did. I quit drinking, cut down the smoking and committed myself to a more active regimen. I rode my bicycle everywhere I could, and bought myself one of those little ab wheel things. Every morning, wherever I was staying, I would make myself do three sets of 10 rolls, like a little ball of pizza dough trying to roll itself flat. I felt it was starting to help, but then I got one of my periodic neck spasms and was practically bedridden for two weeks, barely able to get myself up to go to the bathroom. Each attempt was a comical, 10-minute modern dance involving a complex weight-balancing and shifting process that invariably left me screaming in agony. August was the worst month, when every ailment came on all at once and I was a spasming, flu-riddled mess. I vowed to get myself to a doctor right after Labor Day. And then all hell broke loose.

My first thought, on watching the second plane fly into the south tower, was, "Oh, now terrorists are blowing up the world. Sure, why not?" That's not to minimize the sickness or horror I felt, watching the destruction unfold live on television, but because it was the ultimate just-when-you-think-things-can't-get-any-worse moment, an absurd cosmic oneupmanship that pushed my already teetering psyche right to the edge.

The first place I went when I got back to Brooklyn that first day was to Brooklyn Heights. The acrid air was thick brown, filled with soot and ash. It looked like nuclear winter. Common sense told me I should be walking away from, not toward, the source, but I couldn't help myself. I put my t-shirt over my face and went down to the promenade, where masses of people were milling around. I sat down on a bench and stared. And cried. I went back to the promenade later that evening, and again late that night, then early the next morning. I began making four or five trips per day down there, sitting for as long as two hours at a time. I attended a few candlelight vigils, walked and talked for hours with friends by the distant glow of the klieg lights.

The cough started on the fourth or fifth day. At the time I shrugged it off, because I had been sick in one form or another for nine months, but while sitting with friends at a coffee shop on Montague St. I jokingly said that I had "World Trade Syndrome." But I never really thought it would turn out I was right.

It became something of a joke at work; the guy in the next cubicle was constantly offering me cough medicine, DayQuil, drops, lozenges, anything to get me to shut up. It was a dry, deep, hacking cough, relentless and strong. My coworkers had often complained about the poor air quality in the office, so I bought an air filter and humidifier for my cubicle. This seemed to help, so I got another for home. My cough subsided, but it never completely went away. Meanwhile, my other illnesses proceeded apace: I got sick, I got better, I got sick, I got better.

I didn't go to my doctor for a long time. When I finally did, the first thing she asked was, "Why did it take you so long to come and see me?" I shrugged. "Because I felt too lousy," was my answer. She laughed, but I think she understood, too.

The doctor told me I had The Cough. What I had thought was just an attempt at gallows humor was actually true. I don't recall the medical term she used, but she said my lungs had become oversensitized to irritants, due to my exposure to the toxins and chemicals in the air after 9/11. Although she didn't think I had asthma, that it was probably only bronchial spasms, it was still too early to tell. The doctor prescribed an inhaler, which I am still using, and it has helped a great deal. I probably don't cough more than 10 times an hour now, and they're much milder. I have to go back for a followup visit soon. I keep trying to tell myself I can put it off, but I know I shouldn't.

On New Year's Eve, a few minutes before midnight, I raised a glass with a good friend. We reflected on what a hard year 2001 had been. I talked about my health problems. "I feel like I spent the whole last year just trying to get well," I told him. My friend thought for a minute, then answered, "If that's the case, then why don't you make this year all about staying well?" It was so simple; my friend was right. A few days later I flipped through my healthcare provider directory, and started looking under "psychologists."