Hi Darling Ones,
There’s a delicate balance to answering the question “How are you feeling?” when you live all by yourself and have been stricken with the plague. It’s difficult to communicate how you feel like mold while trying not to alarm the asker. If you factor in my Minnesota stoicism, my bordering-on-psychotic need to be seen as capable and independent, and my phobia about being a burden to anyone for even one second. . . well, you got a nightmare situation on your hands. Or rather I do.
I am sick, and my plan to power through this like it’s no big deal is not really working as well as I hoped it would. Bleh. I hate paying attention to my body and listening for what it needs. I don’t like slowing down. For someone who claims laziness and whose favorite activity is laying on the couch reading a book, I do not enjoy “taking it easy” on command. I only want to take it easy when it’s my choice. MINE! Nothing makes me want to be an active, productive member of society like illness. Being a true, blue contrarian in the very coils of my DNA is fucking annoying
The COVID symptoms are not fucking around. It feels as though my body is going through the checklist of all the Omicron symptoms and checking them off one-by-one as the days progress.
We started with the throat of fire and pain; moved on to sinuses full of crap; yesterday was one long headache; and today is the brain fog and fatigue. Through it all, of course, is the lack of taste and smell.
The brain fog is real, yo. If any of these sentences make any kind of sense it is through the grace of some deity I probably don’t believe in. I have typed and deleted and typed and deleted a lot of fucking words today.
Want to know what else I did today? Spit in a plastic tube while a nice lady with a southern accent watched me over Zoom. That was fun. Then I got to call my mom and ask her to pick up my spit tube and bring it to UPS. The asking for help sucked worse than spitting in front of a stranger. I do not do well with the asking for things, namely help.
Once my spit hits the lab I should know within 24-48 hours if I have the actual, factual plague or if I’ve just been gifted with all the plague symptoms. Of course, the news was shouting yesterday about how half the employees at the plague lab are out sick with the plague so test results are taking forever.
The only thing more fun than the plague is late-stage capitalism. AMIRIGHT?
I am cranky and miserable, and the fact that so many people keep checking in to make sure I’m alive is simultaneously wonderful and scary. I like the feeling of being cared about a whole bunch, but the fact that people seem to really care about this makes me think I’m not taking it seriously enough. What if I die from being too casual about COVID?
Ugh. I’m fucking tired today. But I’m alive. Hopefully that continues.
Casually, covidly yours,