As I enter Day 10 of Influenza A, I’m starting to believe that I may become a productive member of society again. Someday soon.  Maybe.  I’ll let you know.

Yesterday I attempted the mind-over-matter approach to recuperation.  I decided that I would be better, dammit.  I got myself out of bed, showered, dressed, put in my contacts and washed all the sheets and blankets on the bed.  Seriously, that was what drove me the craziest this past week.  And then I began melting away.  Coughing fits.  Fever.  Malaise, they call it.  I crawled into my now clean (thank God) bed and turned on Netflix so it could drone as background noise to my codeine-induced hazy state.  Are you still watching?

Netflix has been a constant companion throughout this flu journey.  Netflix and the cat. My husband, bless him, came home from Denver mid-week to take care of me and to make sure our son was eating something other than Wendy’s and Pringles.  This, in spite of my weak assertions that he didn’t need to come home, that we would be fine, that I didn’t need to go to the doctor, yadda yadda.  He was fabulous, brought me soup, made me go to the doctor, bought Sobe’s and did everything else that needed doing.  I had quarantined myself away into our room, to try not to share this ridiculous virus with anyone else.  So, my Dear One’s visits were only long enough to transport sustenance in and out of the room as I pointed pathetically at the door and said, sounding surprisingly close to the Amityville Horror voice, “Get. Out.”

Today, it’s very quiet.  Rob returned to Denver.  He does have a company to run, I guess.  Riley is gone for the week at a ski race.  I’m trying to get as much done as I can before I melt back into the bed, where the cat is waiting patiently, as is Netflix.