The worst flu symptom

I’m on the mend. The Diva has a fever of 101, headache and a tummy ache, though she claims to have a tummy ache 97 percent of time anyway so it’s hard to tell if that’s a symptom of anything.
At the doctor’s office, she tested negative for the flu, though due to last night’s horrific nosebleed that left the bathroom looking like the aftermath of a machete fight, she couldn’t produce enough quality snot for a good sample.
The nosebleed began soon after the second fever spike. My poor little Diva is accustomed to nosebleeds, unfortunately, and knows what to do, and rarely involves me unless she can’t stop the flow, which happened last night. I settled her in my bed with a couple of towels and helped her squeeze her nostrils. I rested her forehead on my shoulder when her neck got tired. I woke up Hot Firefighter Husband every 10 minutes to consult:
“Honey, we can’t get the bleeding to stop.”
“Huh? What? Just keep squeezing. ZZZZZZZZ.”
Ten minutes.
“Sweetie? Should we try something else? She’s starting to spit up blood.”
“Huh? What? She’ll be fine. ZZZZZZZZZZZ.”
Ten minutes.
Me to the Diva: “Okay, I think it’s slowing down. Just lay here for a minute while I get you some water.”
Husband: “Huh? What? She’s laying down here? Okay. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.”
It’s slightly astounding to me that this man, while at work, can insert an IV into someone’s vein five minutes after waking up -- because at home, when he’s in bed asleep, I’m pretty sure that even if the house was burning down, he would need a cup of coffee before getting out of bed.
And for a medical professional, he’s remarkably blase. Yesterday morning, he arrived home from work and saw the Diva in her pajamas, and I told him she had fever. “So....she’s staying home from school?” he asked. Um......yes, Mr. Paramedic, that’s the recommendation of every health organization on the planet right now, that a person with fever avoid all contact with living things.
Anyway, the Diva probably has the flu, despite not passing her flu test. Oink.
When her fever’s raging, she’s freezing and miserable. A little Motrin brings quick relief, and puts her on an ibuprofen high that makes me tempted to send her to school for a little while. Apparently this strain of flu causes 7-year-old girls to develop verbal diarrhea and become infected with inane, unanswerable questions. Or they’re answerable, but complicated. Okay, fine. I just don’t have the patience to answer them. But seriously. 
“Does Miley Cyrus write her own songs?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why doesn’t she write her own songs?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Think what?”
“Why do you think she doesn’t write her own songs?”
“I just don’t.”
“But who writes her songs?”
“Honey, Mommy can’t talk right now. I have to focus.”
“What are you focusing on?”
“I don’t know.”
“But what do you mean, Mommy?”
“Okay, honey, you just have to stop talking for a minute.”
“Mom. That sounds a little like you’re telling me to shut up and it hurts my feelings.”
And so on. Then there’s this, as we’re pulling out of the Smoothie King parking lot: “Mommy, why does that sign say ‘Adam & Eve’ and ‘no one under 18 allowed’?”
“Well. Because it’s a place only for grown-ups.” Thinking -- is it reasonable for an Adam & Eve shop to be right next to a Smoothie King? Was there no dark side street available?
“So Taylor Swift could go there! Right, Mom? Because she’s 19!”
“Right. If she wanted to.”
So Taylor Swift, if you’re out there, please know that at least one little girl who counts herself as one of your biggest fans is happy that, though you’re still not old enough to (legally) have a drink with Kanye West, you are old enough to visit sex toy stores, and in fact she would like to know if you’ve ever been to one.
The flu, I can handle. The accompanying curiosity? It’s killing me.