I suppose I should be grateful I’m vaccinated and boosted. I should be thankful I followed my instinct and got a PCR test shortly after feeling ill instead of relying on those flimsy, routinely inaccurate rapid tests we’re all relying on instead of the former. I should find the silver lining in staving off this wildly contagious virus that’s turned the world on its head for the past two-plus years. If it was only so simple.
Right now all I feel is pain and shame because I didn’t follow every instinct and instead of staying home when I felt sick earlier this week, I forced myself out of bed, into the shower, onto my bike and into the office for what ended up being a draggingly painful day I chalked up to a sleepless night, which feels a lot like a hangover, which feels like being sick, neither of which I’ve experienced for years.
I ignored the most vivid “COVID dream” I’ve had to date, which involved me coughing a couple times (which may not have been a dream, who knows, it was a bad night of being mostly awake) and being filled with certainty that I finally got the vid. The rona.
My subconscious knew it, but I convinced myself that telling my boss I wasn’t feeling well the day before my birthday would look suspect. I’m also new to this job and not past probation, ie. I have no job security yet. Also also, I had a trip with my boyfriend planned for this weekend, and already requested a day off from my “annual leave” bucket to cover the three-day weekend.
But last night, on what was my actual 40th birthday, I peeled myself from the couch and headed toward bed, only to notice my phone’s vibration that alerted me of an unread text, the one I’d been obsessively checking my phone for for the past 31 hours, in hopes that it would quell my fears.
Over the two days, I took three rapid tests (all negative) and one PCR test, which I wouldn’t be writing about if it spit out the same result.
I opened the link that took me to the results which said, in all caps, “POSITIVE.”
It felt like the heart-sinking moment after taking a pregnancy test and getting the same result. No one wants COVID, and I sure as shit don’t want children. Nothing about either situation is positive.
Thoughts and emotions flooded before I texted my boyfriend way after his bedtime but I didn’t know who else to reach out to, and right then, I needed to talk to someone instead of listening to my thoughts tell me what a terrible person I was and am for going into work while sick.
He was clutch, responded right away, and picked up when I FaceTimed him. He listened as I went through the timeline of the past two days which he already mostly knew about, and heard me say, “I should have done this, I shouldn’t have done this, I should have listened to myself when I first felt sick, my intuition/subconscious was right! I should have…”
“Stop shoulding on yourself,” he’s told me before and reminded me again.
We agreed to not cancel our trip, the operative word being cancel and another “C word” I’m just not into, but rather to delay it, and use a “D word” I can get into. And it was a sweet trip, to the coast, near a lighthouse, in a small town with a wildlife refuge visible from the Air BnB hosting zebras and giraffes and other creatures that definitely aren’t native to Northern California or this continent for that matter.
It was a trip I booked to celebrate leaving my 30s and entering my 40s, especially considering the past two birthdays involved nothing overly celebratory in nature (thanks/fuck you COVID) and I wanted to celebrate with my man in privacy, somewhere beautiful. But again, thanks/fuck you COVID, now I have to quarantine.
After hanging up with him I canceled the reservation (within hours of being able to receive a full refund) and dragged myself back to the couch because I was wide awake and a little Better Call Saul was in order.
And so I’ve been home all day today. I have a few more days of “quarantining” or not going out in public. I’m sure I’ll get some groceries delivered or do curbside pickup, neither of which I’ve done at all, ever, not because I’m snobby (though I am about many things including coffee, chocolate and shows), but because I’m frugal and do most of my shopping at Winco, where the cost savings is your reward for bagging your own groceries and not assaulting other shoppers with your cart.
Winco is my jam, but they’re not the type of grocery store that’s gonna pick out your items, put them in a bag, and bring them to your car in the parking lot. That’s your job, honey.
But after some reflection I think I may have found my silver lining in this whole bit. And that’s Ozark. See I was supposed to be gone this weekend, not binge watching the last part of the final season of what’s possibly the best original Netflix show to date. Make that the best original Netflix show to date. Why am I holding back here? I love you Laura Linney and Jason Bateman and Julia Garner. Ozark clearly dominates and history will treat you kindly.
But it drops at midnight tonight. And my bestie recently sent me a Roku TV for my birthday (thanks again, Abay!). So it’s not the weekend I planned with hiking and beach walking and food and sex and exploring a new-to-me town. It doesn’t involve my sweetie or anyone in physical proximity. Sipping coffee in bed will have to be a solo experience until the hopefully not-too-distant future.
What it will involve is my favorite players of the Ozark mountains (I’m confident the writers didn’t fuck this one up) reaching a well-earned denouement (those who make it out alive, that is). Now that I’ve ridden out the pain and shame feelings (or stuffed them somewhere they’ll inevitably find a way out when I’m trying to sleep tonight) it’s time to see what’s in my kitchen. Maybe make a vegan quinoa salad. Did I mention I still have my sense of taste?