I think of these isolations in terms of where I can’t go, much more than where I can go since I can’t go anywhere.

I could not go to the farmer’s market; I could not go to the food co-op to return the laundry I’m supposed to wash. Of course, we had a quiet day.

I could take a short walk up a nearby hill, which felt very good; I’m thinking of my heart. I am nearly finished with Anne Cleaves’s mystery and hope tomorrow to start on some of my other books.

I’ve been sleeping so much – and writing a lot – that I haven’t read as much as I planned to. I went outside to throw the ball for Zinnia and visit the donkeys and give them each an apple.

I think they like having me around, but then, I am often around, just not all day and all night. Zinnia continues to shift gears and shadow me everywhere, like a secret service agent. Bud hops up to my lap when I sleep and snores, Zinnia by my feet.

Two therapy dogs, in a sense.

Maria reminds me that I’m not a child, repeatedly asking if I can do this or that. The answer is no. I call her Nurse Ratchet.

She made me some turkey meatball soup, and I did feel stronger today than I had for the last few days.

When I sit down to write, I feel fine; it’s odd.  Otherwise, I’m weary but getting stronger.

The end of my isolation is not quite in sight.  Tomorrow I go to Saratoga Hospital to be tested. The guards and nurses know me by now.

I have no fever and just one, possibly two symptoms still. If the test is negative, which I am certain it will be, then I will speak to the doctors, and they will decide when I am free again.

I am not really a prisoner, but I get a sense of what permanent confinement might mean. Just not going where I want is troubling; it sometimes makes me angry, which is unfair but perhaps inevitable. Nobody likes being told where to go and where to go, but I am conscious of not endangering anyone else.

I have no true sense of what it might mean to get Covid-19, and I am certain I don’t have it. Isolation does make me humble; I do not mind being alone.

Isolation brings back some feelings of isolation – I was always alone when I was a child, it seemed the safest way to be. Sometimes that melancholy comes back in isolation.

I love being alone, but being forced to be alone is different. I think of all the people who died alone from Covid-19 and I don’t really know how to honor acknowledge them.

The best I can do is remember them and remind myself how lucky I am.

I talked on the phone with my friend Christine Decker, the actress, she is funny and sharp, and it’s good to call her.

Maria took out her singing bowl, a present from our friend Jackie, and I closed my eyes and listening to the beautiful sounds that it makes; I can feel the vibrations in my body; the bowl is calming and comforting.

I worry about how much I am sleeping, but a friend who is a nurse says I need to understand that my body has been through a lot this year, and even though the surgeries were all successful, they took a toll on my body and energy.

I have a sense of recovering my strength.

It will take a few days for the tests to come back after tomorrow, so I’ll be in isolation for a short while yet. I’m guessing this coming weekend will be the end of it.

It feels like I’m in between things, living life but also a little detached from it.

Maria is driving me to the hospital, and then back home, to my curious isolation. I feel a part of history and also estranged from all of it. I like the Singing Bowl from Tibet.