103.3

That was my temperature Sunday night after I woozily dragged myself out of the steaming hot bathtub. Said bathtub had been the only thing stopping me from being overcome with violent shivers, but perhaps poaching myself in the tub wasn't the best idea, ever. Once my core temperature had settled down, it registered a less hospital emergency-room worthy 102 degrees, according to my semi-reliable Kroger brand thermometer. I shivered and shook and tossed and turned Sunday, and by Monday, it was irrefutable: my seven-month not-getting-sick streak was over. And then Tuesday, it got worse. My voice was little more than a strained whisper. I couldn't breathe properly when I tried -- and failed -- to sleep, and when I gazed in the mirror, thinking that perhaps I'd spot a swollen tonsil, I noticed that my uvula was resting on my tongue. Troubling.

So, yeah, I went to the doctor's office the next day. A strep test came up negative, but my temperature was still strong at 102, so it was time for drugs. Nothing fun, just some antibiotics in case I actually *do* have strep, and some Tamiflu to hopefully shorten the course of my treatment if it was indeed flu I was afflicted with. So far, so good: I slept better last night (although the double dose of Tylenol PM didn't hurt, either) and my uvula seems to have returned to its normal size. I'm still hacking up globby, gelatinous pieces of goo from my lungs, but sometimes I can almost talk like a normal person, so, yeah, things seem to be improving. My dad brought me soup and Orangina (oooh, and some cough syrup with codeine) earlier tonight, and the plan is to veg out to some Law & Order and let the healing begin. I guess I'll truly know that everything is back to normal when Kyle and I can share the same bed (he's been sleeping in the guest room to stay away from my cooties, and so I can toss and turn at will). Someday.