Well, Valentine's Day wasn't exactly the success I'd planned. Instead of a grand dinner of French bread, Pepsi and chicken Alfredo, it was Tylenol, orange juice and chicken soup.
I'd started coughing Wednesday night. Unproductive and uncomfortable, but no signs of pleurisy, at least. Continued to cough my way through Thursday's work session. By the time "go home" sounded, I felt truly awful. Home and bed. I closed my eyes and opened them to see that hours had passed and Himself was coming in the door.
Dear man. The instant anything even looks like it might be out of order, he wants to know how to fix it. Immediately.
An inventory of symptoms included teeth-rattling chills. Great. I knew it was a fever even before digging out the thermometer. Himself went out for juice and acetominophen while I hopped into a tepid shower.
We were both in bed and trying to sleep by eight-thirty. Hack and shiver, juice and Tylenol, then sweat like a pig as my fever broke. Hooray!
Feeling much better today, only a scaled-down version of the cough remains. We're watching old movies right now (Harold Lloyd Wright, Laurel and Hardy, the Marx Brothers) and having a great time. We might have missed celebrating the official Valentine's Day, but no big deal. We spent it together, at least, and we have something to look forward to tonight.