Two weekends ago was supposed to have been fun.
My day should have started early before the sun came up, car packed, and me sipping on a hot matcha latte as I drove the two hours to Portland, where I was supposed to meet my parents and let them spoil me with birthday gifts and chocolate cake.
What did I do instead? I caught Covid-19.
Again.
Imagine my anger, fear, and frustration when I woke up feeling as though my bones were carved from ice harvested from the pits of Antartica, tears spilling without rhyme or reason – including the inability to shut them off, and my head feeling as though I had shoved it inside a volcano.
A quick text to my mother, and I was back in bed with the heated blanket plugged in and turned on the highest number the silver-grey dial could go.
I spent the following 12 hours waking up intermittently, shoving my head into a toilet and emptying what little contents were in my stomach, fitful hallucenogenic dreams, and sipping microscopic amounts of water.
I didn’t even have to wait 15 minutes for the Covid test to work. The moment the snot-solution reached the T section, the whole line turned a bright fire-engine red. There was no mistaking or misreading anything.
I had Covid.
I spent the rest of the week in bed, self quarantining from everyone. There were some days where I could barely even stand.
I’m better now, thank the heavens. Though, I can barely taste any flavors in my food, and I’m constantly smelling god-awful scents that aren’t even anywhere around me, also known as Phantosmia.
L.J. LaBree 