Ten months after it became so clear to health officials and clear-minded politicians that Covid-19 was enough of a threat to basically shut down the country, the virus has reached into the homes and lives of millions more Americans. Primarily due to the magical thinking of the president and his GOP minions, who want their followers to believe that the virus is a plot by Democrats and the media. It has become a new constitutional right in some quarters not to wear a mask or practice common sense safety measures to prevent the spread of this “plot,” which has killed hundreds of thousands of Americans and sickened over a million.
I was one of the early ones who danced with this bitch. Back at the end of 2019, after getting a flu and pneumonia vaccine, I got both the flu (October) and pneumonia (December). A couple of weeks after moving into my new home in Marysville, WA, after complaining to my girlfriend about ongoing bouts of chills, fever, and finally a lack of breath, she convinced me to call 911. An ambulance took me to Providence Hospital in Everett, where I was the first Covid patient on the new ICU Covid-specific ward. Zippity Do Dah indeed.
After my transfer from the gurney to a bed, which was vastly more comfortable, I don’t remember much about what happened next. I have selfies of being in some kind of serious oxygen mask, and looking like I’m about to explode from lack of air. A day after being admitted, they determined that I would require a ventilator to breathe. I vaguely recall being wheeled somewhere and a male nurse un-velcroing a device of some kind and saying “hi! I’m so-and-so, and I’ll be inserting your breathing tube!” After that, I went into a two-week-long journey of twilight and hallucinations. I was transferred to the Providence in Seattle (in my hallucination), which was next door to an abandoned department store, where there was a formal ball in process. For some reason, the hospital staff put me in some kind of baby carriage and wheeled me around the guests, showing me off, and at one point accidentally spilling me onto the floor, where I was immediately the subject of a photographer from the Seattle Times, whose picture of me then ran on page one of the next day’s edition. Meanwhile, they wheeled me to a place beneath a giant clock, one that took up at least two stories, and whose movements I could clearly hear. After being there for what seemed like days, I guess I came back to the real world, such as it is. But my hallucinations continued for at least several more days – my two sons were in my room chatting with me, even though no one was allowed in my room but nurses in full protective gear.
I was finally transferred out of the ICU to another less-intense ward, where I was slowly brought back to things like eating and using the bathroom. In previous hospital stays, I recalled my recovery being on the fast side of things. I was usually up and moving around within a day or two. But that was when I was much younger, and not carrying the lingering effects of a virus of which no one really knew anything about. My muscles were completely de-conditioned after a month of non-use, and I was not able to walk without a walker. I was weak and addled. I expected these things to diminish by the time I got home. I was wrong.
As of this writing, I can still barely walk to my mailbox, about the distance of a city block, and back without exhaustion. I give vocal and guitar lessons in Seattle twice a week, but it takes an act of massive fortitude to do it, and for two days afterward I’m toast. I can sing and play maybe six songs before I’m completely drained. I can write for a while, maybe an hour, before that exercise becomes too much to continue. My body hurts on a daily basis. My breath is still a struggle much of the time. My right leg is swollen to twice the size of my left one. I have two kinds of inhalers, neither of which is that effective. I am exhausted and wrung out nearly every minute of every day. The medical system I use is so over-stretched that I have had only two in-person visits with my personal physician since I’ve been released. And neither he nor anyone else in the system who have evaluated me can come up with a reason, let alone a treatment, for any of my symptoms. I have a very close friend with whom I’m in touch every day, but aside from that, I’m going through this alone. I’m not at all unique. But this is my story, and this is my situation.
It’s now 4:30 a.m. l awoke at 3 a.m., not an unusual time for me, since sleep is elusive as well. But this particular morning, I’ve been seized by the need to tell my story. I need help with the details of living. I have yet to transfer my mobile home into my name, after almost a year. I have not filed taxes for this year. There are other routine things that need attention, but go unattended because I can’t muster the focus and energy. Going to the store is almost more than I can handle, but I can’t figure out the delivery services.
Romance? A joke. After a lifetime of being in love, and being loved back, I feel lucky to have my friend. Her friendship is everything to me. But she is not in love with me and has made that crystal clear. I haven’t touched her in almost two years. When I look in the mirror, at my ravaged and severely overweight body, I can’t imagine any woman feeling anything more than pity, but most likely disgust, for the sight of me. My singing is lackluster, my guitar work steady but made difficult by arthritis in my hands and thumbs.
A brief flirtation with a spiritual path has been amputated due to an inability to feel much beyond the surface world. Another source of despair right there, folks. A time when I have golden opportunities for reflection is being trampled by an inability to sustain meditation or reflection of any kind for more than a few minutes a day.
Is this how it all winds up for me? At 66, it’s not like I have my whole life ahead of me. Is it just this endless routine of eating, television, a little exercise, a little music, then more television, for the rest of my life? Just waiting for the usual age afflictions to visit an already-ravaged physical being and slowly put out the lights once and for all? No! Comes the answer from within me, but for once, the calvary isn’t coming from behind to back that up. I’m being slow-marched into the madness of seemingly-meaningless routine, of use to no one, of interest to no one. Truly alone in a senior citizen trailer park in an unfamiliar state surrounded by strangers in a strange land. Even this country is an unfamiliar place these days.
I suppose things don’t make sense unless we filter them through our projections, and maybe my projector is broken. If that’s the case, it’s fine. I just wish the ways in which I’ve managed to screw up my relationships weren’t so prominent in my thoughts these days. My house is haunted long past Halloween.
Dream Streaming 