Hey, how are you, how are things, sorry there wasn’t a post last week, after three and a half years my husband and I finally caught Covid and I’m still mad about it and also a little sick and mad about that.
‘Finally caught Covid’ makes it sound like we were on some grand adventure across the globe trying to track down some ancient shiny treasure to lock in a museum for eternity and after long, long last we found ourselves in the right hidden chamber of the right cave in the right jungle or whatever. Finally! We have found the Idol of Co’Veed!
But you know that’s not what I mean nor what happened. We didn’t have to go to another country. We don’t even know where we got it, but our best guesses are all within a thirty mile radius of the house.
And I’m not happy I got it. I’m fucking pissed.
You know what really makes me angry about it? Having to listen to no less than a dozen stories since I’ve gotten sick about how other people got Covid and actually, hey! Hey! Guess what! Hey! It was no big deal!
“It only lasted a couple of days and felt like a sinus infection!”
“I was just really tired for a day and a half and then I was fine!”
“I didn’t even know I had it until I had to test! Ha-ha-ha!”
Well, la-dee-fucking-da for you people, glad you all managed to get Covid Junior complete with safety restraints and a package of glow in the dark stickers. Meanwhile, we managed to get Covid X-Treme, the old version of it that was electric-piss yellow and sold in jagged bottles and ultimately discontinued because it turns out it was causing the mice they were testing it on to burst into flames.
To be clear: we are both fully vaccinated. I don’t even know how many shots that constitutes anymore. Three? Thirty? Doesn’t matter, we’ve done them all. I’ve gotten so many shots I radiate 5G in a big enough radius to encompass most of two counties. This thing still wiped the floor with both of us, to the point that we are convinced if we had gotten it in 2020, before the vaccines, we would have both been vented in the ICU or dead.
Here’s a general timeline of what happened:
Day One: My husband feels weird, but not weird enough to think anything of it.
Day Two: My husband still feels weird and gets the chills with the fan on him even though the ambient temperature of the room is still 74. We both test and he gets the brightest, nastiest, most-inflamed positive line I’ve ever seen in my life. He immediately moves his shit to the guest room in an appreciated – but ultimately futile – attempt at keeping me from getting it.
Days Three-Four: I continually check to make sure he’s still alive while trying to keep my distance. Mostly he’s asleep. My five years as a night nurse give me the skills to spot the rise and fall of someone still breathing from the doorway. Meanwhile, I am starting to have body aches and a slight pressure in my right ear. I foolishly try to believe that I will only be getting Covid Junior. Like a fool.
Day Five: Oh fuck. Oh shit. Oh fuck oh shit oh fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Days Six- Seven: I remember exactly ten cumulative minutes of two entire days, minutes which are made up entirely of getting up, using the bathroom, taking more NyQuil, and barely making it back to bed. I now have the same symptoms as my husband: I can’t stay awake, I am completely congested, I have trouble breathing if I, you know, move anywhere, and I ache from head to toe. Notably, I never got a fever. Hooray.
Days Eight-Twelve: We are both recovering but it is so fucking slow. It is the exact opposite of the vaccines, where the symptoms turn on and back off like a light switch. Every time I think I’m better, I get up to do something and immediately have to sit back down. I climb the stairs and my heart tries to explode. I don’t lose my smell or taste entirely but there’s this weird layer of flavor over everything, like the equivalent of a patina of dust in a boarded-up room.
Days Twelve-Now: I’m not contagious anymore, according to the CDC, so I’ve got that going for me, which is nice. But I’m still mildly congested and coughing and exhausted and short of breath. It hasn’t been long enough to worry about long Covid, and I am slowly getting better, but all of this still fucking sucks donkey balls.
“I got it twice and both times I went swing dancing before I ever figured it out!”
I will choke you to death with a dog leash, Deborah.
This is not the sickest I’ve ever been in my life, no, Covid only ranks at number two after that time about six or seven years ago I managed to pick up the H1N1 swine flu from a patient at work. And she wasn’t even my patient! I was walking past her room when the call bell went off and like a good little helper I went in to see what she wanted and to turn the call bell off I had to lean over her and get directly in front of her face and it was only as I was leaving that I saw the yellow PPE sign on her doorway that was all YOU SHOULD BE WEARING A MASK, ASSHOLE.
But at least the flu has the decency to get fucking on with it. The very next day I went to Epcot with a few other nurses and we were standing in line for some bullshit or another and I noticed a sore throat was happening and I thought, shit, another cold, guess that’s three days of a sore throat followed by a week of a head cold followed by a month of a lower respiratory infection. Because that’s how I roll.
But no! By the time I was driving back across town two hours later I was swimmy, feverous, and begging the fluffy lord to let me get home before I completely passed out. There was less than twenty-four hours between me picking up the thing and wishing I was dead. Now that is time management. That is how a disease should manage itself. There was no lolly-gagging, no pussy-footing, no limp-dicking. The flu got in and started breaking windows and pissing all over the floor before my organs could even call security.
Anyway, that’s why I didn’t do my homework. Get your shots, wear a mask indoors, and I hope if you get it you get to be one of those annoying fuckers who got Covid Junior.
High Urban Fantasy Jazz 