I’d been hearing and reading about it for a couple of years and then finally it hit me. I took it personally, though I also knew I was one of many millions of humans around the world caught up in the pandemic. It wasn’t the universe’s judgment against me and a harsh sentence for crimes, misdeeds or sins, like telling lies. An illness I have learned over the years can distort one’s own perceptions of self and the world beyond self. It helps not to feel isolated, to have family members and friends close-by. Remember, too, that Covid isn’t necessarily a death sentence.
I’ve had two bouts with it. Maybe you have, too. The first took place in the snow capped Rocky Mountains in Colorado about 7, 000 feet above Sea Level. The second bout in San Francisco. I first tested positive in Ridgway, Colorado and took Paxlovid from Pfiser which was prescribed, until I was well enough, I thought, to fly home. I wore masks on the flights and in the airports; I was in the minority. For a few days I seemed fine. I went to mass at St. Ignatius, took part in my water aerobics class on the campus of USF and shopped at Safeway. Then I came home, made and ate lunch, a mortadella sandwich on a toasted English muffin with mayonnaise. Minutes later I collapsed and went to bed. Paxlovid is not a miracle drug, I learned. It can mask the symptoms but not kill the virus that causes it.
A few days after I came home, I tested positive at a clinic in San Francisco. No more Paxlovid. It’s not an option the second time around. I thought I was a dying man. My whole body rebelled against me, or so it felt. I slept and slept, poured liquids down my throat and took Ibuprofen around the clock. Everyone told me what to do: take zinc, and vitamin C, drink ginger tea, and gargle with warm salt water. My health has improved and my spirits have recovered. I’m writing this missive in bed, drinking tea which I brewed, resting and taking Ibuprofen. I won’t make the same mistake I made earlier this month when I thought I’d beaten Covid and threw myself back into my life with a vengeance. The ginger tea sure feels good.
A neighbor is bringing me two books I requested from the SF public library, including Zadie Smith’s new 454-page Dickensian novel which will distract me. And last night a baker at Arizmendi, the worker owned and operated cooperative, brought me a pizza, sweet rolls and bread sticks. That's all very sweet. I won’t starve, and a war isn’t raging outside my front door. I won’t have to evacuate my house or huddle under a stairway to survive bombs, missiles and machine gun fire. If you’re sick, it’s better to be sick at home than in another state and another time zone, though the Rockies are beautiful this time of year and the fall foliage is spectacular.
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