I haven’t posted for a few weeks, because the dreaded thing happened: I got covid.
Last week I was at the library doing some study, and the old man across the table from me was talking about covid: how he hadn’t had it yet, how he’d get the second booster soon. When the brief conversation turned my way, and he told me to make sure I didn’t get it, I said ‘I had it recently’, and he got frowny and told me he wore his mask everywhere and I should too (note: I was wearing a mask).
Studying at the library
If only you knew, I thought. It wasn’t worth telling him all the ways I tried to protect myself. How I pulled my 12 year old out of school for almost an entire term when omicron was on the rise earlier this year, and worked fully from home for 3 months. How I didn’t see my friends and didn’t go anywhere except to the supermarket to pick up my online grocery order. That I’ve obeyed every lockdown and every rule about masking, got vaccinated and boosted as soon as I could, worked from home more, stopped going to busy places, generally retreated from a world that doesn’t feel safe to someone with chronic illness.
And yet.
I couldn’t continually deprive Caspian of his education and social needs because of my worry and my illnesses. I missed my friends. I was sick of my own cooking. I knew I couldn’t absent myself from society forever, even though the risk hadn’t gone away. We re-entered the world even though it didn’t feel safe, because it did feel important.
And Covid got us. I probably caught it from my friend at dance class, or at coffee afterwards. She tested positive the following day, and I got sick a few days later. Caspian came home from a holiday with his Nana the day before I developed symptoms, so he was stuck in isolation with me, and caught it before I realised I had it.
Grateful for my sweet lazy dog
I’m relieved that I didn’t end up in hospital. I’ve been hospitalised for my diabetes because of other illnesses several times, and that was before the healthcare system was strained almost beyond its limits. I was glad that I’d made the decision to move out of the bus, because I was right: it would have been very difficult to manage life in a bus while sick. I was thankful to my past self for diligently preparing supplies that we might need, like medicines and ice blocks and an oximeter. I’m grateful to have a supportive workplace, which encourages us to rest, and provides as much additional sick leave for covid as we need. I’m glad I didn’t have a younger child who needed nappy changes or playtime or to be picked up and rocked. I’m lucky that I could afford groceries and that we had safe housing. So many things to be grateful for, even though it really sucked.
It was two weeks of misery, and I’ll spare you the details. I rested, and forced myself to eat, and closely monitored my diabetes, and Caspian and I rewatched all of Stranger Things and The Good Place. And then the fatigue lifted and the nausea and headaches dissipated, and I realised I survived this thing that has frightened me for more than two years.