Surviving Covid

This past week and a half has been a new version of Hell for me.

Why? Because I caught Covid-19.

It wasn’t one of the worst cases, but it certainly did knock me flat on my tuchus for a week and a half.

At first, I thought it was just my seasonal allergies acting up: sneezing here and there, having to clear my throat, and the occasional dull pain-thrumming behind my eyes.

But then my boss tested positive.

I went straight to one of the nearby hospitals to have myself tested, but I already knew I had caught it.

Sure enough, a day later my test results came back. I too was positive. The following week was brutal. It felt as though someone threw up one of those large switches you see in the old mad scientist movies. I found myself in bed the very next day, unable to get up, and doing nothing more than trying to sleep for more than 40 minute intervals. I was reduced to nothing more than an oversized slug.

I couldn’t eat anything more than soups and broths. Liquids became one of my saving graces. The other was the absurdly large amount of meds I took to get rid of headaches and mucus. It didn’t do anything to stave off the constant pain I felt in my legs. I can safely say I know what it feels like to have thousands of sharp fingernails bite down into my flesh, never relenting, always constant.

My roommates either laughed at my situation, or avoided me like the plague.

I thought I was well enough to go back to work on Monday (plus, it was my 10 days up from quarantine – I was going stir-crazy and was willing to do almost anything to get out of the house,) but I couldn’t stop coughing my damned lungs up, so I ended up going back to the house early. I guess there are some things that can’t be rushed.

I’m taking things slow for now. Drinking my fluids, taking medication to try and soothe my poor Sahara-scraped throat. I go to work when I can, and stay at the house when I’m just too tired to move a muscle.

I’ve been finding myself thinking about what the world would look like if Covid had never happened. I’d most likely be working in Portland, living either at home still or in my own apartment. I’d have my cats with me, snuggling together on a ledge facing the east, drinking and lounging in the morning sun. Would I be happier there? Would I still have wanted to move to the Boston area? Would I have to need roommates so my student loans can get paid?

Still, I would say I’m okay with how my life has turned out. I’m not crazy about catching Covid, but I would daresay this virus was the dangerous equivalent of an ice-cold bucket of water. I was dangerously flirting with the feelings of resignation. As in, I was unconsciously falling into the idea that I was never going to catch my dreams, and they would only stay as daydream thoughts for the rest of my life. As long as I paid off my loans, then I should be happy and content with what life gave me. Just because I am okay with where my life has brought me, doesn’t mean I’m going to be content with it staying this way.

That’s not why we have this life. Why have dreams if we’re not meant to chase after them? Why have wonder and curiosity if we’re not meant to follow them and ask ‘why?’ or ‘how come this happens?’

Life is meant to be beautiful and full of color. Catching Covid reminded me that our lives can easily be taken from us. I’m not sure who said it, but there’s a phrase that I absolutely love to think about: “The past has already happened. The future has yet to come. Today is a gift–that’s why it’s called the present.”

I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to spend the rest of my life being miserable behind a 9-5 desk job. I’m going to do what I love. I’m going to be what I know in the very base of my essence: A Writer. A Novelist. An Author. However you want to put it, that’s what I’m going to do.

Feel free to watch me rise.