It is 7am, the day after the summer solstice and I am sitting on the floor of the office watching the sun tip over the tall pines across the street. It is a little too warm and a little too stuffy, still, I refuse to open the windows to the first pleasant morning of the year only to let the roar of morning traffic ruin my sacred space.
Sacred might be too strong of a word today though. This room is a mess. My down comforter is mashed up in a ball under the window next to a pile of pillows next to a wicker ottoman I’m trying (and failing) to sell on Facebook. To my left, on the floor, sit not one but two journals, a thick collection of Adrienne Rich’s poetry, one mug, a teapot, a water bottle, no, two water bottles, two boxes of cold and flu medicine, a pill bottle of vitamin D, another of Zicam, a ziplock packet of CBD capsules, slippers, tangles of charging cables, and one yellow rag to catch all of the snot they swore was not a common symptom of COVID.
Meanwhile, my family is gathering in Montana, where I’m supposed to be right now, to run rivers and hike Glacier National Park.
I spent the week hoping that by day 5 I would test negative, but I haven’t, and my nose is running and there’s still a little cough in my chest, and the CDC says I can leave isolation, but still have to mask up until my symptoms are gone, and friends are saying it’s fine, just go to Montana, and other people are saying it’s not fine, you’re going to have to sit this one out, and my family is saying I don’t know if it’s fine, but we miss you.
So I’m looking up flights for an August trip home instead and moving PTO around the little squares on the calendar and clocking in sick days, and trying to rest, yes rest, among the emotional chaos.
Meanwhile, I’m overthinking the heaviness in my lungs and wondering if this thickness in my chest is worse than any of the other 1 million colds and flus I’ve caught in my lifetime, or if I’m going to struggle to return to my bike, to my runs, to my athletic escapes. I do 30 sit-ups and try to assess if the way I feel is perfectly normal or not. The diffuser is spouting little streams of white steam, overfilled with eucalyptus oil which I can’t smell because I am too congested or because COVID killed the nerves in my nose, something I won’t know for sure until at least a few days from now. So I drink a cup of flavorless tea and try not to think of all the things that could have been the last things I unknowingly smelled or tasted.
Outside, it’s starting to feel like summer and the rain may have finally stopped, and it makes me feel all that much more rushed to return. Everyone reaches out to me saying, “Don’t worry, COVID’s not so bad,” while I am personally feeling quite bad, while I am masking up for slow walks around Bayview Cemetery, while I’m taking long rests after the shower because it’s a little too much exertion. Still, some people are asking me about my plans for next week, and will I attend this event, and do I think I’ll make this meeting meanwhile my sinuses fill up with snot
I wait out isolation watching a documentary about a diver and an octopus, then stupidly read a book about the brevity of the human life which makes me antsy, and settle finally into hours of shameless TikTok which quickly discovers I am a glutton for spooky videos about multidimensional beings and aliens and skinwalkers and ex-Christians. I have nothing better to do so I watch all of it.
In the bathroom mirror I notice little clusters of zits are forming along my cheeks and chin where my mask hugs tightly to my clammy, feverish skin. I am already sick of slapping the rubber band around my head every time I need to pee or heat up water and there are still 5 days left. Then there are the new sub-varients sweeping across the country, evading vaccine antibodies and antibodies from previous COVID infections meaning I could catch this again. Meaning another 10 days like this. Or worse.
Meaning I’ll spend the next several months anxiously masking and avoiding enclosed public spaces.
Meaning living with any sort of ease is out of the question.
Meaning, I’m sorry that I forgot that this pandemic was not over until it personally affected me.