Current temp is 102°F. I am currently incubating some nonspecific virus—that is not influenza—which currently thinks I am teh hawtness.

Or it's making me that. Whatever.

Jeff is tending me, all but putting the ibuprofen in my mouth every six hours, and bringing me things like Gatorade and cool washcloths for my neck.

Note to self. Keep spouse.

At least PHE is over. I can take as long as I need to get well. There's no timetable.

Monday night: "Uh, I don't think we should go to the movies tonight. I feel kinda funny. I'm gonna lie down, I think."

Tuesday: "Why does this thermometer say my temp is 102°F?"

Wednesday morning, Dr. Fisher: "You have the flu, Jeff. Here's a prescription for Tamiflu. Don't go back to work before Monday."

Better. Much better.

My white cell count has dropped to 8,000, which is back down to within normal ranges. My chest x-rays are much clearer than they were last week, and my sounds & volume are much better than they were before. We did one last breathing treatment with albuterol, and he instructed me to go home and rest.

The strength of the antibiotic I'm on right now is causing … uh … issues, but this was anticipated. I don't have to return for another follow-up treatment unless I am still wheezing by Thursday.

So here's your update, or your scorecard, or whatever.

I have pneumonia. Jeff has bronchitis. The hacking and wheezing is a sight to behold, but the good news is that nobody's going to the hospital—hooray! My white cell count has dropped from 18,000 to 15,000, which still isn't good, but it's an improvement and indicates I'm responding to antibiotics. Jeff's currently stands at 16,000. (Normal? 4,500-10,000 per microliter)

We are sad and pathetic, but we are sad and pathetic together, and that's what counts.

According to my doctor, I have pneumonia, a white blood cell count of 18,000, and about 50% of my normal lung capacity.I have a wheelbarrow full of drugs and a follow-up appointment tomorrow morning. If I'm not better, it's potentially hospital time for me.

Back … soon, I hope.

There were phone calls last night, phone calls whose contents I barely remember. I've been gradually succumbing to the crud that has eaten the immune systems of my spouse and nearby friends. What began on Tuesday as an inexplicable inability to breathe fully while working out had spawned into the feeling of having a cat permanently sitting on my chest.

Even when it wasn't actually true.