Day 3: Never Have Bronchitis on a Train

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After supper and talking, I went back to my room, and was annoyed to find that my car attendant Michael had not yet put it into night mode. Apparently I had left items on my chairs and the staff will not touch personal items. He explained this and converted it. As I said above, it was surprisingly comfortable -- right up until midnight, when I suddenly woke with another coughing fit, a really bad one. I soon realized that I simply couldn't lie down any longer; I couldn't breathe when I lay down.

I spent the next hour alternately trying to wake Michael up without waking everyone in the car, and trying to figure out how to put my bed back into day mode. I couldn't do either. Finally, literally an hour since I had first waked coughing and gasping for breath, a security guard came through our car and I asked her for help.

She scolded me for even thinking that Michael would help me at that time of night, but she did put my car back into day-mode. When I asked how it was done, she snapped at me that I wouldn't be able to do it if she told me. I got a little more sleep in a chair.

The next morning, I felt rather resentful towards Michael. What, I wondered, would I have done if my breathing problem had gotten worse? (I'm still wondering that.) At last, after glowering at him half the day, I came over to him and said, "This shouldn't be a problem on the way back; I'm not travelling till March and I should be over my bronchitis by then, but what should I do if what happened last night happens again?" Or I tried to say that. I had waked up with laryngitis and I couldn't speak above a whisper.

It was obvious that he had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. I assume in retrospect that he must simply have been away from his room from midnight to 1.

Anyhow, what Michael gleaned from my conversation was that I wanted my roomette placed in Night Mode right then, at 1 p.m., which he most obligingly did. I thought that might work; I could sleep before he went to bed and then ask him to switch me to day-mode for the night. But in fact I only managed a little sleep; every time I lay down I started coughing again.

Meals set off my coughs too. Some of it was just the exertion of walking through the halls to the car. Some was a current of fresh air that invariably hit me in the face as I sat down. And some was the food, catching in my now-hypersensitive (and rather raw) throat.

Breakfast was an ordeal, even for me. They tried to seat me on the wrong side of the table; one side of each table had more room (and I did fit); the other had less (and I didn't). When it became obvious that I wasn't fitting (and was taking the tablecloth with me in my efforts to fit), they asked the couple I had been seated with to switch sides. They agreed, a bit grudgingly, but the effort of getting out of the too-small side and into the too-large side set off another paroxysm, and I couldn't get it to stop. I finally tried more coffee, and that did the trick eventually, but by then the waitress had come and moved the other couple, and I don't blame her. I was sorry to have inconvenienced them so greatly.

Well, at lunch I tried to take my seat as usual, but the same waitress was working and she yelled at me. She said, "You've got a cold; you mustn't eat at the same table as anyone else!" I tried to tell her that it was not a cold and was not contagious, but my inability to speak above a whisper made this nearly impossible. In the end I meekly went and sat, exiled, at my table, while everyone else had entertaining chats with their tablemates.

By dinner, another new train crew had come in, but of course I didn't realize that the dining car waitstaff had changed. I started to go to a vacant table, following the instructions given to me at lunch, and I was yelled at and told to come sit with others -- on the wrong side again.

I began trying to explain, in my husky whisper, that I had been following the other waitress' orders, and that I could not go in that table because I would not fit. The waitress gestured me to the right side of a table and loaded another passenger on the other side.

I told her what the waitress had said at lunch and tried to reassure her that, if I should cough, she did not need to worry because it was chronic bronchitis, not a cold at all. She immediately got up and left, even though I had not coughed. Then a man came and sat with me and I said the same thing to him and he left.

Then, to my astonishment, the other waitress there came over to me and said icily, "If you cough again we shall have to ask you to leave. There have been too many complaints."

In fact, I had coughed just once, and that was a single session of about six coughs, a response to the fresh-air blast upon entering. I had been doing amazingly well compared to the other meals.

I retorted that it was chronic bronchitis and it was not contagious. She said, "They don't know that," indicating the other diners, and stalked away. I thought it over, decided she was right, and tried to attract her attention to say that I was willing to take my meal in my roomette. But I was unable to do so; she never looked my way, and presently the other waitress came and slapped down a salad and biscuit.

She spent as little time at my table as humanly possible, so it was obvious that she at least thought I had something contagious and was lying about it.
Rather than telling me the day's choices, as she and the other waitress were doing for all other tables (I heard them doing it), she came over to me and snapped (from a safe distance) "Well, what do you want?" I began to give her my beverage order, since that had been the pattern of the other meals -- drinks, then a meal some time later. She said, "No; what do you want to eat?" She had not told me what the Chef's Special was or what the Catch of the Day was, but I didn't mind having steak again, so I ordered it. She turned and walked away, and soon she brought it. She had not brought the beverages, though, and I could not eat dry food and not cough. I said as much to the other waitress, who came by presently, and she yelled to the other one, "She needs a drink!"

The waitress did apologize for forgetting the beverages (coffee and milk); I said I could see she had a lot to do that night. I did my best not to cough and largely succeeded (entirely succeeded as far as paroxysms). Then I got a bit of succotash (Tex-Mex succotash, unfortunately), stuck in my throat and I had to have some water, since I wasn't allowed to cough to clear it. And they wouldn't come near me so I couldn't ask for it. I finally raised my hand and waved it wildly.

When she came to see what I wanted, I explained the situation. She was holding a pitcher of water brought to refill someone else's glass, and she reached for my empty milk glass. I agreed, "You can put it in the milk glass," though of course it discolored the water. She did not bother to fill it, leaving it only about two-thirds full, and it was only an eight-ounce glass to start with, if that. I wasn't sure I would have enough to work. I had tried drinking the coffee to fix it and had burnt my tongue, it still hurts and will for a few days.

Anyhow, I ate as fast as I could, consistent with not coughing, and although she hadn't come near me when I was trying to attract her attention, she swooped right down on me, asked, "Are you finished?" and grabbed the plate almost in the same instant. She never asked me whether or not I wanted dessert. Fortunately I didn't.

The other big event of the day was the crossing of Raton Pass. I was concerned about that because I once had an episode of High Altitude Pulmonary Edema while at the North Rim of the Grand Canyon (about 8500 feet). The pass is only 7500 feet, but I had noticed (retrospectively) symptoms of altitude maladaptation on the Grand Canyon visit at 6000 feet and up.

Remembering the night-mode sleeping car incident (See Day 2), I decided that I wanted to cross Raton Pass with as many people around me as possible. I staked out a seat in the lounge car and stayed in it most of the day, though I had to leave to sunblock when the sun got high. The sunblock left white smudges all over my face, not to mention my T-shirt. (This was not a factor in the evening dining-car incident; I had showered and changed for dinner.)

Debbie came and sat with me for much of the day, and I also talked with a pleasant older man who was a hang gliding instructor and a studious twentysomething who lent me a book to read. It was Goat Song, by Brad Kessler -- just the sort of book I like, so I noted down the bibliographic data. It was an autobiographical account of the author's experience raising goats as a suburban hobby.

The scenery in Colorado and New Mexico was really striking. I had seen the red rocks and purple mountains of the southwest desert before, but not for years. I had never seen anything quite like Colorado, with all those strange, naturally flat-topped mountains. (I believe the correct word for them is "butte.") There were herds of cattle and occasionally herds of antelope, the latter wild, of course.

I had no difficulties with the altitude at all; I did not even lose my appetite except perhaps right as we crossed the pass. We went through a long tunnel first, and then there we were at the top. There was a little sign marking the elevation, but it went by too fast for me to photograph it.

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Photos

Sagebrush (I think)
Sagebrush, I think.

Comments

[Beth]

Lovely
to read your blogs.. Very interesting reading. Im hoping your meal times improve though. what very rude train waitresses.