4:00 a.m. My own witching hour. Up in the dark and out of bed, leaving my VNM sleeping peacefully.
We, Julia, VNM and I, have had Covid this last week. We were all ready to go to the wedding of the daughter of a dear friend, trek to Cleveland to party and see old friends, when I felt ill on Wednesday morning. “Felt ill” lacks the drama of the experience. It was more like getting slammed to the ground and wrestled into stillness. I managed to get Julia up and out, dropped her at Elliot House, drove back home and crawled into bed. I begged out of a class to make Yaprakia and skipped choir rehearsal that evening. I asked Julia’s therapist to pick Julia up, stay out of the house with her and drop her when their session was finished. During the day, I held out hope that I would recover quickly from whatever it was that I had and still get on a plane on Friday; however, by the evening I gave into the inevitable and by Thursday morning, I tested positive for Covid and cancelled all our plans. I was pretty sick—temperature, head ache, body ache, awful cough, loss of smell and taste and a few other symptoms I’d rather not describe. During the next four days, I ran through almost everything, apart from severe breathing problems. I was fortunate to call my doctor in time for a Paxlovid prescription and this morning I took the final dose. Symptoms did not retreat as quickly as they came on but after three doses, I began to feel more myself albeit very tired and still coughing.
VNM fell to the Covid test on Friday, and Julia on Saturday. Julia has had a deep cough and had taken a lot of naps, but otherwise is symptom free.
So, we’ve had a long weekend of naps, soup, cough and cold medication, water and juice and tea and more soup.