I was sick for a month. Here's why I didn’t tell you.
There’s an inimitable fear that goes along with an unverified case of COVID-19, the illness caused by the novel coronavirus. It’s the torment of choice between under- and over-reacting, a paradox that can involuntarily spew out of you into the world.
For me, it started with a kidney infection and an overall feeling of malaise. Once I recognized that something more was going on, I went home and into hiding. I only told the people I thought needed to know: my husband Brian, my doctor, and individuals with whom I’d come in close contact. In particular, I worried about the friend I’d hugged the day before my chest started to tighten. She’s in her twenties, so age is on her side, but she lives with her mom who has health issues (as of today, they’re fine).
My COVID-like symptoms remained fairly mild for about a week. Because I live far away from family, I didn’t tell them. I didn’t tell friends or clients or colleagues or Facebook. No need to freak everyone out, I thought, if this thing turns out to be a bad allergy attack.
But inside our little two-person household, the freak-out was real. Brian claimed his right to two weeks of pandemic sick leave, and a day later, he started to cough.
Paralysis by fear might have overtaken me had it not been for my clients. As small business owners, we all were (and are) facing versions of economic ruin. Instead of flight, however, we chose to fight and fight together. The good work we did (and are doing) during this time may very well have saved me from depression; please let it also save our businesses.
By Week Two, I was checking more boxes: shortness of breath, tightness in my chest, fatigue, and a persistent cough. Since I only had a slight fever and COVID-19 tests are in short supply, my doctor wouldn’t order one and honestly, I didn’t have the energy for the long wait at the drive-through testing station. Brian was in the same boat.
I recognized it was time to alert family and some circles of friends. By virtually closing the social distancing gap, I still had fear whispering in one ear but now love was shouting into the other one. And a niggling sense of guilt.
I couldn’t bring myself to say I had a “possible case of coronavirus.” Instead, I called it “my experience." With so many people who are sicker than us, dying, losing loved ones… so many other people forced to put themselves in harm’s way… how could the same name capture it all?
By Week Three, Brian was slowly bouncing back. I thought I was turning a corner too, until the cough returned with a vengeance. I couldn’t talk without coughing, so I stopped talking.
It was official. My voice was gone. Creatively and literally gone. There was nothing left to do but rest.
About five days later, I woke up in the morning and for the first time since my symptoms began, I felt like doing something.
That’s when the doodling began, thanks to a nudge by my friend Katie.
Now it’s the end of Week Four. On my doctor’s advice, I’ve waited until three days after my symptoms fully abated to call time.
“Time.”
Except now Time means something utterly, completely different. How in the world are we going to articulate that?
This short story and accompanying doodle were accepted and published as the first chapter of Pandemic in Paradise: Florida Stories from the 2020 Coronavirus Pandemic. Available on Amazon.