I see an angel in that flower above. Am I dreaming? Perhaps she is helping me rebound from my illness and reminding me that I  will be fine in a few days or weeks. There will be some effects beyond, but it seems I will be fine. Maria too.

I have no taste, my head and chest are still congested, and I am having trouble sleeping.  I tire quickly and forcefully. That is getting better each day. I feel my strength and energy dripping slowly back into me, like maple syrup into a bucket.

Sometimes I get depressed and then rebound.

The illness does that to you. Food is tasteless, and so is some of the joy of life.  Life just doesn’t look so good when I am sick.

Maria and I are refugees, sort of cut off from the world. I have barely looked at my beloved Leica’s, and my visits to the garden are brief and somewhat joyless. That is changing, in its own time, in its own way.

The rebounds are getting much stronger than the dark moments. Since Covid sufferers are quarantined, there is a sense of isolation and loneliness that are not common in other illnesses that I’ve had.

There is also a sense of recovery, which can be exhilarating.

It’s fascinating to experience: we get five to ten percent better every day, except when we crash, which happens at least once a day. Every morning, when I wake up, it’s better.

It is a curious thing to be an older man who knows with absolute certainty that he would have been long dead by now if it was 50 years ago or even 30. That ends up shaping almost everything I do. What is it, the poet asks, do I plan to do with my wild and precious life?

I know the answer. Do good, be better, listen more, and care deeply. And be grateful for every day.

People sometimes seemed dangerous to me when I got  Covid, and  I know I am suddenly dangerous to them.

Maria and I are very close, as is obvious, but most of our interactions are familiar after days of isolation together: how are you? Can I help? Is it time to rest? You look awful. How can I help? Can I get you something to eat or drink? I’ll do the dishes! Can you believe this? I’ve got to get some work done. Are we okay?

She called a friend today and said she just needed someone outside the farmhouse to talk to. I understand.

 

 

Fall is a melancholy time for me, the end of the season of color and light, the approach of winter. I see intimations of Fall showing up in my garden.

Some of my first flowers are already dying.

I’m happy to say my relationship with Maria has helped up rather beautifully during this testing week. We get bitchy with each other sometimes and weary of each other sometimes, but we never stop loving and caring for each other.

Mostly we eat toast or soup. We don’t care. We’re both too tired to make our Mayo veggie diet and stir-frys. Today’s diet is toast and a banana for breakfast, tomato soup for lunch, and pea soup for dinner. No shopping this week. We sometimes smile at each other and shake our heads at dinner. What a strange week this has been.

Covid gets old fast. It was old from the first hour. So many people have had Covid, and almost everyone has a different experience with it. Some have the sniffles and are done with it. Some can hardly breathe and are weak for days and days. For me, it’s not the flu. It’s not a cold. I call it a hot mess.

Our normal lives are totally upended; we are living upside down.

Covid seems almost intuitive, moving around at will, resisting conventional medications. I wonder if it doesn’t choose its victims and have some fun with them. It goes where it wants to go.

I’m in the sixth or seventh day of Covid; I can’t quite recall which, and I’m too foggy to count.

My Covid experience – I was diagnosed positive on Monday and am allowed to go out (masked) over the weekend – has been transformative. It helps me to be empathetic and compassionate about the suffering people endure, most of it far worse than mine. It spurs gratitude and perspective. I see myself in somewhat of a different way.

I’m glad I don’t have to go back to the office tomorrow, I don’t think I could do it.

 

Some things about the experience were expected – social media trolls sending nasty and idiotic messages, good people sending good wishes and good feelings – and some things were a surprise.

I didn’t expect to be so sick, and I imagined there were all these medications to make me feel better.

Paxlovid is one of the miracle anti-viral that kept the virus from getting worse. I got that on Tuesday. It doesn’t cure Covids but stops it from getting worse, which is healing.

Otherwise, I was on my own. It was up to my body to fight back, and my task was not to get in the way. Like almost everyone I know, we did everything we were supposed to – got the best kinds of masks, wore them everywhere, stayed away from crowds.

Until my birthday weekend, we relaxed a bit there, and Covid, the sly bastard he is, was waiting to pounce.

“I’ve been coughing for two days,” I pleaded with the nurse,” can you prescribe anything for me?” The answer was quick. “No, not really, she said. “There are things you can buy, but they won’t stop Covid.” Time will do that, she said. She was right.

Covid is not like any virus or sickness I’ve had before. I understand now why so many people succumbed to it a few years ago and why I am so fortunate that doctors, scientists, and government officials have figured out how to help and treat people like me. I know I would have died from Covid when it first appeared, almost certainly on one of those ventilators in a hospital saying goodbye to a Maria on my cellphone.

I think I came close this time, in the middle of the second night, when my head and throat were so clogged and congested I wondered if I could breathe for much longer.

I stood up and walked around and felt a bit better. As long as I’m getting better, I said, I’ll hold my ground, and I did keep getting better and still am. And I am still sick also.

Maria and I look at one another and laugh; we sometimes look so forlorn and wretched, like refugees right off the boat.

I keep wanting to get in the car and go somewhere, but I don’t trust myself to drive yet, and there is no place I could go without endangering someone else.

Covid is a common humdrum experience now, except for the people getting it; when I tell people I have to cancel a meeting because I have Covid, it is ho-hum. “Oh, that’s too bad; get better.” People tell me their experiences; some are like mine, and most are not.

Covid has morphed from a terrifying disease to a shared experience we all need to get used to. Like the flu. What I have is nothing like the flu, yet they are right. I will get better. I am better. I wonder if we have learned anything about Covid as a people, but I don’t see any evidence.

The same rigid positions, the same superstitions and conspiracies, the same suspicions, and denials. To me, Covid is a timely reflection of the pandemic sweeping our country – resentment, grievance, lies, and anger.

The doctors are a hoot and sympathetic, but they’ve just seen too much to get excited about it. Their chill is reassuring. They don’t seem too worried, so I’m not either.

 

 

Covid isn’t much into relaxing. I don’t watch much TV and can only read my books for a few minutes. My vision gets blurry, and I get a headache quickly. Until it became impossible, Maria and I went outside and sat in the chairs looking out at the hills and the pastures, it was lovely. she had started retaking walks. I’m not there yet.

Sometimes I’m glad to stand up straight.

The thought of what might have been chilling me to the bone sparks waves of gratitude and appreciation. We are a nation of ingrates and fools at times. We are fascinating people, but our souls seem broken.

There are too many people to thank for my being alive, and I don’t know hardly any of them. Still, I am very grateful for their hard work and so sorry that our caretakers and health care people have been abused and mistreated in our troubled country (spiritually as well as literally). We turn on the very people we need to love and respect.

The first few days were far worse than I expected; I’ve heard for months that the new variants are not a big deal and are easily handled. I got one of the other kind. Older people with chronic conditions are at higher risk. I get it.

Maria was diagnosed just before I was, and she had a rough time and is recovering still. But I never presume to tell her story. She can do that better than I can and on her blog if she wishes to. She is solid and loving. I adore her.

I had every single symptom but one and did not ever have a fever. I also owe that to the vaccines and the boosters. The thought of what might have happened without them chills me.

So the bottom line is clear and reasonable. We are getting better every single day. The anti-viral medication is working well; the virus is receding and retreating. By the middle or end of next week, I will be back at the Bishop Gibbons meeting and talking with students. School is starting up soon.

Maria’s feelings are always close to the surface, and I love her. At least once a day, she turns to me and tears up, and asks me:
“Are we okay?”

And I say,” yes, sweetheart, we are very okay.”

And it’s the truth. And she believes me. We are better than okay, I tell her.

We plan to do a lot with our wild and precious lives and appreciate every single day of it more and more.