I woke with one thought: oh crap! Well, maybe two thoughts: ouch! And then oh crap! The reason? The back of my throat felt raw and sore. “It’s nothing,” I told myself. Hydrate. Maybe gargle some salt water. Good as new.
By noon, instead of going on a hike, I took a nap and woke feeling worse.
Shaking and chilled, I took a long, hot bath hoping to ease the inside freezer-burn. Instead, it worsened.
Stay Far, far away
Sore throat. Fever. Body aches. Tragic headache. COVID? It couldn’t be, could it? Yikes. It had to be. It was time to put my symptoms to the COVID test. Testing, testing, one, two three. I completed the online assessment. It determined I needed to be swabbed, and so I waited my turn and wallowed in misery.
I punched a hard ol’ five days, so it really wasn’t hard to isolate. Not feeling well, I either slogged in the bed or slothed on the sofa. My daughter was warned to stay far, far away, and she had no problem complying considering how rotten I looked and sounded. Armed with Lysol wipes, she disinfected herself into a corner of our home and stayed put.
Nanny dropped cooked grub off on the doorstep for my all-but orphaned child when edible extras were available, or my kid foraged for herself. Most likely a shortage of Dollarstore ramen exists in Kelligrews if I were to guess what she survived on. I’d be lying if I said I cared one way or another, because I simply didn’t have the will to live let alone enough motherly instinct to worry about anybody’s potentially grumbling gut or a ramen-raged overdosing.
My grownup military man of a son? He totally abandoned his kin. One “I’m not feeling great” text from me had him heading for the hills, or more specifically, caused him to hunker down at his girlfriend’s home like he had no family to his name. He had a few things he needed to grab at the house before he could totally move on with his non-contaminated life, though. From his favourite mommy-bought because she loves you snacks to his girlfriend’s Valentine’s Day gift, he had his sister suit-up in all but a hazmat suit before laying the pillaged booty on the back deck to un-COVID for a few hours before he carted it away to a more sanitized dwelling.
80-hours of total misery later, a call from Eastern Health. Testing time. By test morning, I was starting to come around. What had once had me feeling like big bus roadkill now felt more like the makings of a common cold. The sore throat was gone. The headache had subsided. The chills had eased. But I wasn’t better. Not by a long shot. My ears ached. My sinuses hated me. And man, was I ever tired.
Countdown is on
This was my first COVID test. I hadn’t been sick in forever and I didn’t like it one bit. I wanted to blame someone, only I knew no one who was sick. I hadn’t been exposed to any bug, let alone to COVID, not as far as I knew, anyway.
Was I nervous? A little, but luckily my test time and drive-tru location, while busy, was incredibly smoothly ran and I was in and out before I had time to ponder the predicament of having my nasal cavity violated by a cotton swab on steroids. Plus, the wee toddler being tested with only a tearful whimper in the car next to me made me toughen up my inner sook. And now? More waiting. This time, for test results. And that folks, is the worst part.
Am I contaminated? Or worse! Have I spread sickness to others? Just thinking about the ticking time bomb of touchpoints in any given day gives me the guilts. On just the one day before I became sick I had made a grocery run and had gone to two separate medical appointments. There was a work meeting, coffee and a yarn with Mom and Dad at their kitchen table, some quick cuddle time with my nephew in the landing of my home and I had cooked and eaten supper with my daughter and son. Scary stuff.
So, do I have ‘it’? As of this writing, I’m not sure. Now that the testing is over, the COVID (or not) countdown is on.