It's good to not be dead.

If I took more pride in my writing, I'd have nothing to post today. You wouldn't be reading this.

Still weak from COVID, I've been in my recliner for two weeks now, so there are no stories to tell. Had breakfast with my family this morning, and it was the first time I'd left the house in two weeks, but nothing much happened at breakfast. No amusing anecdotes of my mom, sorry.

Four years into the worst pandemic of my lifetime — the pandemic that taught me the word 'pandemic' — I hadn't caught what's been goin' round. I'd fooled myself into thinking that's impressive, that I'd been smart to wear the mask since 2020, keep my shots current and all, which is true, certainly. But going four years without COVID is mostly a testament to what a complete hermit I am. It's easy not to get sick if you live your life utterly alone, as I have since my wife died, five years ago.

But jeez, how many old episodes of Doctor Who can a man watch, back-to-back-to-back? Writing is my preferred (and almost only) form of contact with other humans, and I could use some contact, so whether it should or shouldn't, this page now exists. Gotcha!

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Anyone who's been through COVID, I'd be curious to hear how your experience compares with mine. I'll go first.

At the worst of it, there was uncontrollable diarrhea, much of which didn't make it into the toilet. There was a lack of balance, me holding onto the old-people bars in the walls of the shower, fearful I'd topple. There was no appetite, and I went days without eating; it simply never occurred to me. There was nausea, fever, and a deep, constant gurgling sound with every breath I'd inhale, so loud it frightened the cat — and frightened me, to be honest. 

There was occasional difficulty breathing, and some slight but strange cognitive issues, mostly overnight or when I was especially exhausted, which was often. Sleep or lack-of-sleep was frightening and fascinating to live through, but will be boring in the telling.

I might've been asleep already, when I dreamed over and over that I couldn't sleep. Or I might've been awake. I'm still not sure, but for several nights the dream or the sleeplessness repeated, over and over:

Sleep was allowed, but regulated by a government agency. There were forms to file online, to set up sleep appointments — 4:00 to 4:30 AM might have been an open slot, so I'd log in and input those times, and then do nothing but watch the digital clock at my bedside as it crept toward my authorized sleep time. For hours, I watched the clock tick onward, or dreamed it.

My waking brain wondered whether it was delirium, but to my overnight brain it was insomnia, in its dullest possible manifestation — I could do nothing but lie there and watch the clock. Couldn't look away. Couldn't get out of bed. Couldn't move. Couldn't sleep, unless I was asleep, but if I was asleep I never knew it.

The only thing not to hate about it was, when the clock finally clicked over to whatever time was my sleep appointment, I'd fall asleep almost instantly. Which means, I guess, that deep down inside I'm a man who follows orders, and I hate that about me.

After falling into authorized sleep, my frenzied and incoherent dreams weren't about watching the clock, but became even more relentlessly stupid and repetitive.

In one recurring dream, I was pushing my wife's wheelchair, but she wasn't in it.

In another I was answering phones at Access, but couldn't understand what any of the callers were saying.

In a third, there was a bloody gouge on my hand, and my cat was licking it, eating my blood and flesh. 

In the recurring nightmare that recurred most, I was in a diner waiting for breakfast — always a different diner, and breakfast was always wrong. Somehow computers were involved, something had glitched out, so my hash browns were undercooked or uncooked, or the omelet included shells, or the toast was moldy but toasted and buttered... 

And then a few minutes later, I'd be ordering breakfast in a different diner, where something else would go wrong, and breakfast would again be a horror, or never come.

Now, though, everything's mostly back to normal. What a relief at the diner this morning, when breakfast came quick and tasted great.

There's still a chest-rattling, bodyaching cough, and often I'm still exhausted, but at least and at last I'm sleeping normally, which is poorly. I can stand without gripping the bars. I can breath. There's a very slight gurgling in my chest, so quiet the cat can't hear it.

Only two weeks from the worst, all the symptoms are almost entirely gone. From what I've read of the disease, this makes me one lucky sumbitch. Many people, millions, have life-long lingering aftereffects, but I don't think that'll be me, and for the rest of my life, I'll be thanking my lucky genes.

2/16/2024   

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