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...It's the dayquil shots, y'know? They're starting to affect my sense of humor. At least I can still function, and my Boy is feeling slightly better this morning. I was up every hour or so to clear my sinuses out again, though. I miss being able to take Theraflu for a good night's sleep. Although I've got the non-drowsy stuff around, and maybe I'll sip slowly on that this morning. It would definitely be better than nothing.

KittyCat is happier this morning than she was yesterday. She's not nearly as stuffy, and I credit the sudafed with that. Happy Mama Dance! I can deal with feeling horrible myself, as long as she's feeling better sooner. And obviously since I'm feeling so crappy this is the perfect time to be watching a documentary on the 1918 Spanish Influenza. I've been fascinated for most of my life with the Spanish Flu. My family didn't have a gruesome history with the pandemic, yet it still speaks to something deep inside me. Our flu story was about my great-great-grandmother; when the church bells rang to declare the armistice, her fever broke and the family knew that she would live. Over the years I've read everything I could find on the subject. I've looked up the microfiche records of local papers to read the death notices, and see how fast the progression was. The first week it was in the community there were a handful of real obituaries. The second week, it was a column of tersely worded obits. The third week, there was nearly a page of names, dates, and mere basics. There was no space for anything else, and I believe that everybody was numb by that time. With so many dead and dying, there was nothing left to feel for them.