One minute I was fine, and the next minute Covid was wreaking havoc with my everything. That’s how it felt. Today I stood in my kitchen wondering how six days have come and gone and all I have to account for them is a few fever influenced memories that seem like a weird dream. I remember shivering as I filled my hot water bottle and then staring at it, puzzled, as I contemplated which area of my body hurt the worst. I definitely remember experiencing such intense chills we turned our air conditioner off, and Arrow was not happy about that. I remember waking up, teeth chattering, arms and legs twisted around Mike in a sleep induced search for warmth as he mumbled something about sacrificing one side of his body while sticking the other out of the covers in a futile search for coolness.
I remember crying. A lot. I cried because my skin hurt. I cried because my eyeballs hurt. I cried because the light was so bright and because my blankets were so soft and warm. I cried at music. I cried trying to understand emails. I cried because my knees were throbbing and because I was hungry and didn’t want to eat. I cried when people sent nice texts and dropped off supplies. I cried at a car that was too loud.
I have a vivid memory of Netflix judging us with the, “Are you still watching?” message.
“Yes, Netflix! We have Covid!” I yelled at the screen, and then started laughing, which made me cough, which made me wrap my arms around my pounding head, which made Mike laugh, which made me laugh, and I remember that going on for a painfully long time.
Okay Covid, you’ve got my attention.