COVID

    Though I still wear a mask on the bus and in the supermarket, I finally stop wearing it at work. Within a day, I catch COVID. 

     I wish I had some poignant things to say about the experience, but being sick is either terrifying or fucking dull, and I am not terrified, just anxious and somewhat embarrassed at not having been more careful. My coughing is accompanied by rolling headaches and chills. My mind slips in and out of the fog. I make a video doctor appointment to see if I should be concerned, or if there is anything I should be doing differently. He tells me to get some rest.

   Coincidentally enough, before I got sick I started reading Arrowsmith, about a doctor who specializes in studying infectious diseases. I was assigned to read it in 11th grade, but never did. I vaguely remember trying to cobble together a book report based on some skimming; this was pre-internet, so I had no online sources to crib from. I felt deeply ashamed about the whole thing. I was in pretty rough shape emotionally in 11th grade -I was seeing a shrink, who had put me on Prozac- and had dropped all my gifted classes but somehow got into Advanced Placement US History, which I nearly failed, despite really liking the teacher.

    It feels good to finally read this damn book after thirty-odd years. I'm surprised to find that I absolutely love it. It's well written, insightful, and very, very funny. I relate to the protagonist's struggle to meet his potential. He's not a particularly likable character, but his one redeeming quality is his relentless curiosity, and desire to commit himself to pure experimentation in a world which no longer values any activity which isn't lucrative. I relate to his bumbling as well as his arrogance, and feel that his devotion to science is comparable to my devotion to art.

    Between reading, I get some editing done and actually finish the project I've been struggling to complete (more to follow soon). I celebrate by allowing myself to zone out in front of a show about guys who use metal detectors to hunt for buried treasure, though they more often come away with nothing more exotic than beer pull tabs. It's a sweet, comforting program, both gently funny and melancholy. Other than that, I sleep a lot, mostly during the afternoon, with Spencer curled up beside me, darting off every time I cough but always returning.

    On the third day I venture out just before dusk. I take a walk around the block but it's overwhelming. I feel claustrophobic, like the world is pressing in on all sides. I stare at the ground, unable to focus on anything. I couldn't tell you what the sky looked like.

    The next day I venture out to work (it's been well over five days since my symptoms began, even though I initially tested negative). I can barely drag myself along, can hardly concentrate on anything, and I feel like I could burst into tears for no real reason. I really just want to go back to bed but we're so short-handed, I feel guilty taking any time off. My coughing has abated, but I'm constantly sniffing to keep my mask from getting saturated with snot. I'm miserable, but it could be so much worse. I think of the fear and uncertainty that crushed us before the vaccines were available. I think of the people I knew who died from this, especially my dear Aunt Kathy, who was one of the sweetest members of the family. I could be dying, and instead I'm complaining about a runny nose. I know I should be grateful, and I am, a little. But mostly I just want to crawl into bed and pull up the covers.