november 17, 2000. Today is day 2 of the Horrible Sickness. Day 1 was fairly laid-back: I ate soup, read To Marry Medusa by Theodore Sturgeon and slept a lot. I wasn't even that lonely or bored - luckily enough, the Boy came home early with a big sack of potatoes (we're capitalizing on the PEI potato-wart problem.) I was in a bit of a temper throughout the evening as my couch got worse, my nose dripped maddeningly, and my headache pulsed & snarled. I picked a couple of fights, retreated sulkily to the bedroom and cried for a few minutes. Then we got together & snuggled, so that was okay. I submitted to being dosed with cough syrup and Vicks Vapor-Rub, read some science fiction stories from the 50's & dropped off to sleep. All was well. That is, until I woke up frighteningly short of breath. Every movement of my lungs created a pulse of pain through the whole of my chest. Being half-asleep, I wondered if I were about to die. I decided to get a second opinion - the Boy would be sore if I went & died without talking it through with him first. We conferred. He concluded that I probably wasn't dying. I wondered aloud what he was basing his conclusions on - after all, he wasn't the one who couldn't draw a decent breath. I decided to go spend the night sitting up on the couch - at least I wouldn't drown in my own bed. The Boy dossed down on the floor, close enough to hear my faint little voice if I needed him. After that, it was just a matter of breathing and waiting. Taking each breath against the pain, waiting for the pain to recede enough to let me sleep. In and out. In and out. Trying to fight the tide of weariness and remain sitting up. I've never been so aware of my lungs, pushing and pulling every second of my life. Eventually I woke up. Every muscle in my neck, back & legs were screaming, but my chest had calmed down. I woke the Boy & we stumbled off to bed. I don't think I slept another wink until after he'd gone to work. Poor baby. Tonight, the doctor.