State of this Union

Well, five days later, my temperature is still spiking and dipping, though not as extremely as it was on Monday, and both Fuzzy and I still have uncontrollable coughing. I have zero voice. He can speak but refuses to, because that’s what makes him cough. He keeps gesturing and expecting me to understand when he doesn’t use conventional mime gestures, and while I understand ASL reasonably well, he doesn’t know any.

“Fuzzy,” I’ve said more than once over the last few days, “you suck at mime.”

If nothing else, neither of us is so ill that we’re loathe to bathe without using one of those shower chairs, but I’ll admit that on Monday evening, when I woke up blistering hot and dizzy four hours after going to bed in fleece and socks, I’d have killed for one.

In other news, we celebrate our thirteenth year of marriage at the end of this month.
And yes, we’re renewing the contract.