When you cannot fully live, you simply must survive.

Honestly, I am not sure I want to write about COVID. Even as I sit here staring at this empty page, what do I say? Is there anything I can pull from this exhausted body and foggy brain that would make sense?

I am sixty-six years old, and as such, I am at higher risk for those deadly and chronic consequences known to occur with COVID. As I write this post, it is November 25, COVID day six; I was diagnosed on Saturday, November 19. I stared at the unexpected positive test results. The morning of November 19th, I was moments away from walking out the door. It was to be my monthly outing with my daughter. John and I had both been suffering from what felt much like a sinus infection. The test was a last-minute precaution, one of those hoops one jumps through just to be sure. I didn’t expect a positive outcome. I wasn’t “sick” enough, didn’t feel “bad” enough. Still, I knew of several friends who had experienced only mild illness. I also knew of those who had died.

I called my daughter, “Oh no, Thanksgiving is this week,” she said. Then, she offered a glimmer of hope. “Maybe you’ll test negative by then.”

I knew the chances were slim that I would be at our annual Thanksgiving gathering. Even if I did test negative, there was the possibility of a false result. Would I risk the health of my unvaccinated and older family members to attend Thanksgiving based on a negative test result? The answer was clearly no.

On Monday, John and I contacted the doctor. It made sense to opt for whatever medical arsenal was at our disposal. With that move, I declared war on this invisible invader. We were both placed on Paxlovid, a powerful antiviral medication. There was not much more we could do other than the typical over-the-counter measures one might normally employ for any other bug.

But this was COVID, and as healthy as I am, this would be the first time the thought of not surviving actually crossed my mind.

The following days were filled with serial migraines, sinus congestion, severe body aches, endless coughing, and profound fatigue. My body temperature was never truly high, and I never truly struggled to breathe. I pushed fluids, slept, and binge-watched television. I worried about John, my beautiful, brilliant husband, knowing that his risk for serious health issues was greater than my own.

I was furious. I was indignant. I was scared. For someone so accustomed to being in control, to charting my own course, how could it be that I was now largely at the mercy of this foreign invader? I did what I could, and it never seemed to be enough. As the week progressed, I felt weaker. No matter how much I slept, exhaustion never left me. I had no motivation or energy for anything – not to cook, not to write, nothing. I stared at the walls and curled myself into a ball.

Unlike other viruses I have encountered, COVID didn’t appear to get better with the passing of several days. I seemed to live on a plateau, grateful that my illness had not worsened but unable to shake the virus. COVID quickly reset my new normal.

It amazes me how one can go from feeling vibrant to the latest loser of a prize fight in less than 24 hours. If nothing else, this virus demands respect. In many ways, I am fortunate. I am still here. Today, I feel a bit better, but if COVID has taught me anything, it is this – Do not take this particular bug for granted. Having COVID has been much like riding the waves in the sea; waves of relative calm followed by periods of feeling drained and defeated.

Tomorrow is another day. I plan to tread water. It is the only way not to drown.

Image credit: Virus Covid Science – Free image on Pixabay