Wearing thin.

A letter to my neighbour.

I shouldn’t have had that cup of tea before bedtime.

You see, I moved in just over a week ago, and it’s been a rather rough beginning. The first night I woke up at least four times because you were coughing. And fine, it’s not you, it’s just that this house is really old, the floors are really thin and it sounded really close—like you were at the foot of my bed. It creeped me out.

And then it got a bit better, and the last couple nights I’ve been able to sleep right through.

And it’s nice, you know, feeling rested. Sometimes that gets taken for granted, but you really realize how much you need it when that privilege has been denied.

Like I said, it’s been a tough week, but I felt like I was on the mend.

And then yesterday I bought some tea. I hadn’t had Sleepytime in ages, so I celebrated with a cuppa before bed. That was a mistake.

Four thirty in the morning and I wake up for a bathroom break. I came back to bed and when I pressed my head against the pillow I heard a soft … rumbling.

What was that? I held my breath.

There, again!

Ah, it was you snoring. I could hear you snoring. And could even tell that the range you were hitting wasn’t obnoxiously loud, but there are ducts right by my bed, you know. And the sound carries.

And then, almost as if I’d willed it, you started coughing again.

No—hacking. You started hacking.

And then it stopped.

For two minutes.

And then round two, and three came. Round four followed three minutes later. This pattern continued for a while. I know because I was peeked at the clock. 4:45, 4:51, 4:54.

I noticed how they always start with a small clearing of the throat and then really built into a crescendo. The sound was so clear—I could feel the polite cough turning into a throaty wheeze until, finally, you really went for it, letting it all break loose.

It was so noisy I could see you—mouth wide open and giving it your all, letting your insides look out, tongue hanging past your lips, phlegm and lungs following. Clearly ‘hacking up a lung’ is your current reality. And seemingly mine.

Now is this an incessant cough, or are you ill? I ask because I’ve only been here a short time and am not aware of any other circumstances. I don’t know if you’ve dealt with this your whole life, just your later years or just, coincidentally, this past week.

I wonder if you’ve tried to remedy it with anything, and while I tried to close my ears as tight as my eyes I wondered what I could offer. Oil of oregano? That’s good for the throat, not sure if it would cure the cough though. Would that be rude to offer to you at our next meeting, which, as it turns out, are so rare they border on extraordinary encounters? Maybe we could cure both, cough and failed company, over some soothing tea? Two birds, one pot. We’d be there face-to-face, tea steeping, you healing, me waiting and also hoping. I’ll donate my Sleepytime to get some sleep-time. Sound good?

Don’t mention it, I wave your gratitude off. Or maybe I shouldn’t—mention it, that is. Maybe it keeps you up too, but maybe you sleep through it, completely unaware. Which is what I’d like to do.

With that goal in mind I think we’ll be like two peas on a spoon. So, how about it? I’m here, upstairs, overhearing. And I don’t want to be overbearing, but I’d like to help. This house, the tea, your cold, you know, we’re in this together.