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- I’m a little embarrassed to admit that after two years of not
getting covid, I thought it just wasn’t going to happen. Like maybe I
was lucky enough to have a natural immunity. Or perhaps that two
years of hypervigilance, of masking everywhere, of eating at an
indoor restaurant exactly once since March 2020, bought me
immunity. Like points accumulated after paying your credit card
bill early. Like I had a psychosomatic shield from it.
I was (obviously) wrong. But it’s still a nice thought to have.
Makes me feel like a wizard. - My virus was what’s considered to be mild. “Mild” is a funny
word. Mild connotes mundane. Unremarkable. Flaccid. But my
mouth still hasn’t forgiven me for the time at this restaurant I tried
the “mild” sauce, only to learn that “mild” there meant “incinerating
your esophagus so that it drains through to your feet.”
I’ve had worse congestion, worse headaches, worse fevers, worse
coughs, worse sore throats and worse bouts of fatigue. But what
made this mildness so disconcerting is that I had these symptoms
all at once. It felt like I had five different mild viruses. Like if
seasonal allergies and mono had a baby. It also felt like (heavy sigh)
a box of chocolates, with a new surprise every few hours. (“Oh, I
guess we’re done dry coughing today?” “Why are my bedsheets
soaked?” “Wait ... is that vertigo?” “I didn’t know we were playing the
‘Is that gas or diarrhea?’ game!”) - My entire house tested positive, so we quarantined for a week.
There were times, though, that I sat on my front stoop to get fresh
air, and some neighbors, dog walkers and other passersby would try
to speak to me. I’ve learned to be more tolerant of small talk. I don’t
consider it the ingrown toenail of social discourse anymore. But, for
obvious reasons, I was not in the mood, and most people read my
body language and kept moving.
One person didn’t, though, and stopped to hold a conversation,
even as I stood up, backed away to my door and kept my mouth
stapled shut. And then, mid-question, I turned around, opened my
door and went back inside without saying anything.
My point is that if you’re a fan of the Irish exit, but sometimes feel
bad about doing it, if you get covid, you can do it guilt-free!
T
he editorial schedule of this column, where I write essays
three weeks in advance of publishing, forces me to try to
anticipate the future. Not just any future, though. But yours.
The hope is that what I decide to write about today exists in the
intersection of evergreen and relevance that’ll make it interesting
enough, 21 days from now, for you to want to read it.
Today’s a bit different, though. Because I currently have covid.
But I’m confident that, by the time you read this, it will have exited
my system. And this essay is about what I learned from having it. So
I’m writing this in the past tense. Which means I’m predicting my
future here, too. Anyway, I managed to avoid covid for the first two
years of the pandemic. But then I tested positive and got sick in late
April. Here’s what I learned:
- Two years ago, I was scrubbing takeout and grocery store
orders with Clorox wipes on my stoop before I brought them into my
house. And then, once I’d move them to a kitchen counter, and then
from the counter to a shelf or the fridge, I’d Clorox each surface.
Today, this is considered hygiene theater. We now understand
that incessant Cloroxing prevents the spread like how push-ups
prevent snow. But then there was so much unknown, so much
(justified) fear, that the theatrical felt practical.
Getting covid was scary. There’s no value in pretending it wasn’t.
I’m in good enough shape to play pickup basketball three times a
week with men half my age. But I’m also 43 years old with an
autoimmune disorder, and I live with two unvaccinated vectors of
infectious disease called “children.” It’s less scary now, though, than
it would have been in May 2020. And not just because I’m
vaccinated. But because of the oximeter I bought after reading Mara
Gay’s harrowing essay on contracting the virus, which has been an
anxiety alleviation machine assuring me that my oxygen levels were
fine. And because of what we know now about treating it — which
medications to take, which activities to avoid, how much sleep to get
— knowledge that just wasn’t as available two years ago.
I am worried about long covid, which still exists in that nebulous
unknown. But worry (what I have now) is manageable. Terror (what
I had then) is not.
I avoided
covid for
two years.
Until now.
Here’s what
I’ve learned.
illustration: monique wray