And Then...

Los Angeles, California

Joel and I did return to salsa. The Covid count in LA County had dropped to low, and we were dancing once again, after so many starts and stops throughout our pandemic time. We danced on Valentine's Day, then celebrated the following night, sharing a bottle of Veuve Cliquot Brut Rose. I woke up the next day with familiar sinus allergy symptoms, a bit early for seasonal allergies but, with all the rain we have had in California, the whole allergy ecosystem has gone sideways. We attended a play that evening, stopping for a drink at a kiosk before entering the theater. Champagne? They didn't have it. Scotch? No. I don't suppose you have tequila. The bartender shook his head. I guess I'll have a bourbon. I don't drink bourbon, and this reminded me of why. Joel and I sat next to each other, holding hands, not wearing masks.

The following morning my sinus issues were worse and a lightbulb went off over my head. I used a home test to test for Covid. Negative. I took my temperature. Normal. I took Sudafed and did my usual round of home upkeep that day. But I wasn't feeling great. The test I took the following morning indicated I was positive for Covid. And that was Day Zero. By evening I had developed the worst broken-glass sore throat I have ever experienced in my life. Way worse than the mononucleosis-generated one that I had the first week of school in my senior year of high school, which had previously held the record. I could barely even get water down.

The sore throat lasted for almost three days. Accompanying it was an onslaught of congestion, mostly in my chest. I had already canceled a birthday lunch with Holly and a dinner invitation at Todd and Christopher's. I canceled Ana coming to clean for me. I slept at least ten hours each night and mostly ate soup from cans or homemade soup from my freezer. I was so grateful that the agony of the sore throat had passed, that I didn't really mind the mind-numbing fatigue and continuing congestion. About a week later, I felt I turned a corner and felt elated at feeling some better and, I thought, certainly on the road to recovery. And I stayed at that point on the road to recovery for another two and a-half-weeks. I canceled plans to meet Lynnette in Phoenix, for the triumphant resumption of our MLB Spring Training Games trips. I didn't even feel up to packing for that trip, much less navigating the flight to even get there. A friend who had had Covid around the holidays texted that her recovery had not been linear, and she was so right: One day better, the next even worse than the day before that. I more or less zigzagged in a straight line. And today, going on five weeks, I feel I am at about 90%.

Did I get Covid at our dance club? I don't know. I could have gotten it at our neighborhood market, although I always wore a mask there as well as when I went to Costco or any retail space. But another salsera was also felled during the same time as I. I had talked to her when we were at the salsa club, and talking requires close talking because of the excessive volume of the music. She presented with nausea, chills, and body aches but, besides our fatigue, none of our symptoms lined up. But a month later she is still dragging, as am I. Again, did I get Covid that night? I don't know. But Joel, who was with me that night and for the next two, never got it. He did do Covid duty, bringing me food and OTC meds, after testing negative three times over the next ten days. In addition to Joel's help, friends kindly offered to drop things off. But, when you can barely stand long enough to heat soup, you just don't want to see anyone when you are in that state.

I opted not to take Paxlovid. I knew and also had heard of people who had rebounded after taking it. I am fit. I am healthy. I told myself I would muddle through it and would be fine. What's a week out of fifty-two, I asked myself. I can catch up on paperwork. But I couldn't. I needed to work on my taxes, but there was no way I could focus on that work. I got up every single day. I made my bed. I got dressed. I took a blissfully scalding shower. And then I lied down on the sofa or on the bed all day. I depleted my DVR library and wondered what had possessed me to record some of these movies. Oh! I watched Everything, Everywhere, All at Once and became the only person I know who liked it. A lot. I watched it again, this time so Joel could see it, last week before it won its Oscar. I could explain what I liked about it here, but what's the point? I am sure that everyone who hated it isn't interested in what I liked about it. Moving on...

This could be the paragraph where I write about the partisan take on the Covid pandemic. But what would be the point of that? Everyone who thinks it is no worse than a cold isn't interested in my experience with it. Nor in science, evidently. But I do want to comment on all of the armchair criticism of the shifting advisories we got from the medical community at the beginning of the pandemic and throughout these Covid years. My dad was an engineer and a believer in science and technology. It didn't take my four years in college to understand that all science is developing, not static. It is on a spectrum, not a point. The medical community worked hard to understand this virus which, as a reminder, was novel. Overreach, under reach, whatever, they gave us the best knowledge they had at the time. And following protocols kept me Covid-free for three years.

The possibility of returning to dancing hovers on the horizon as I begin to feel better. But I know it will take a long time for me to get back to my pre-Covid self. I will resume pilates and working out, perhaps starting with walking. I lost six pounds during the ordeal. The thought of lifting weights again sends me to the challenge of lifting cereal boxes out of my cupboard. But life is returning to quasi-normal. I had lunch with a friend yesterday. I spent the evening with Joel. And I returned to WWSD to write this cautionary tale. Cautionary, in that if I had it to do over again, I would have taken the Paxlovid. Two rounds of mild Covid could not be as bad as the four weeks I lost to this virus. But, as everyone I know has pointed out to me, there are different strains and each hits everyone differently. And as I move out of this really dreadful experience, it is time to be grateful for my returning health, the approach of Spring, and my one-day reprieve from the alcohol-abstinence of Lent (though, to be honest, I had no taste for it through the entire ordeal, so it was a bit of a cheat choosing it as my give-up). It is St. Patrick's Day and tonight Red Breast Single Pot Still Irish Whiskey will, hopefully, remove the taste of that pre-Covid bourbon, and set me straight on my road to life as I previously knew it. Or, at any rate, to paraphrase Sam from Casablanca: It oughta take the sting out of being occupied. My drinking toast for decades has been Here's to us. But tonight, as I lift a glass of whiskey from Ireland, I drink to the heritage and the luck of the Irish, and most fervently: To our health!!