Covid: My Turn

It started with goat cheese. A log of Laura Chenel. I would never have bought such a big one. Would we use it in time? Would I like it enough? Would it become boring, moldy or useless? Acknowledging the goat cheese in my refrigerator full of the unfamiliar was the final straw and the nail on the coffin as the reality of my Covid diagnosis could not be ignored.

Robert had gone to the grocery store. The expensive, local one which has delicious, homemade chicken soup. I assumed such Jewish penicillin would speed things along. He returned with a large bag of groceries. Of course there had been a list and he was most attentive to my cravings. Still, individual choices naturally reflected his mindset, not mine.

“Is it too big?” he asked quizzically as I tentatively remarked on its size. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings or to complain in the face of his good nature and willingness to shepherd me through these Covid trenches. But I was curious how his mind worked in relation to mine.

“I don’t know…the other ones were so tiny. There were so many. Is it ok?”

I said it was and spread some on a piece of toast. Delicious and eaten quickly, so I could get back downstairs to our bedroom, my holding cell, the one set aside for my five-day quarantine.

I tested positive on Thursday night at 10 pm. I had been coughing without cause, or so it seemed. We had a stash of tests ranging from the free ones sent by the Biden folks to fancier ones from the Amazon world. So many they were beginning to expire. When one of us felt out of sorts, we swabbed.

Tonight it was my turn. Two different tests, both positive. I cried and wondered, “how?” Waves of shame followed by disbelief and the reassurance from Robert that it is everywhere and of course I have been careful. So many dance classes behind a mask. KN95s always available at a moment’s notice. No change in my daily habits even as the local case load declined and restaurants got crowded. Indoors.

We still ate outside, with minimal recreation. No changes for us. But that sneaky virus had obviously found me.

I couldn’t sleep that first night. Robert had retreated upstairs to a spare bed room with a bathroom down the hall. I had the en suite. Asher, the pandemic puppy who has morphed into a 2 ½ year old was confused. Where did he belong? On whose bed? Never had there been a choice. He was always in between the two of us, closer to Robert who had become accustomed to sleeping within a small amount of nocturnal real estate. Asher liked to put all 67 pounds of his warm, furry body as close as possible to another human. I needed space from both of them, so claimed a majority of the property. Most nights we slept peacefully.

But now Asher was faced with a choice. He stayed with me, selecting the familiar even as he paced with a soft whine before jumping on the bed. He knew he couldn’t stay too close, though he knew I would kiss and snuggle before turning my back to him.

I was awake. For hours, for the duration. My son and his girlfriend were coming from Los Angeles. To celebrate his birthday. We had plans and they had plans. All had to be reconfigured as they couldn’t stay here in this Covid positive space. Appointments to cancel and priorities to be shifted in favor of healing. I made a list of all those I had been in contact with,  those who might now also test positive. I felt guilty and tired and sad and I couldn’t stop coughing as Asher slept through it all.

Friday morning. I Zoomed for one hour with a kind, knowledgeable nurse practitioner. I took copious notes. She answered all my questions and agreed that I was a candidate for Paxlovid, the miracle anti-viral. I call it Pavlova. Easier to remember and a positive association with a desert in Mexico City and my Australian neighbor’s tour de force which she made and shared on her husband’s birthday.

I was now officially in quarantine. Day one. There would be five days under house arrest plus an additional five for good measure. These last five with more privileges if I tested negative. Walgreens delivered my meds, asking that I not come into the store to prevent the migration of my Covid germs. Of course. I had to rework any and all in person plans. Mary’s gift left in a bag by the front door. Asher’s dog walker would wait for him on the sidewalk,  no more personal escort from me. No dance classes or my routine Saturday morning visit to the Farmer’s Market. In fact, no visiting anyone, anywhere.

Such restrictions left Robert in charge of life outside. And that brings me back to Laura and the cheese. I am the one who procures the food, pours over recipes, and cooks. Until Covid. Now I can only leave my room with a mask on. And I cannot go anywhere that is not medically necessary. Food is, but grocery shopping is not. Do I trust an anonymous Instacart runner? Friends offered to pick up what we needed. Granted and appreciated. But not for a major shop.

Another good friend, also a Covid survivor, spoke highly of the chicken soup. So I sent Robert with a list. He returned with the cheese and the soup. And more.

First, years ago, there was the citywide shutdown. In the worst of days. Now the variants and their disciples only shut down the individual lives of those whose swabs read “positive.”

My shame was short lived. As my niece, the doctor said, “everyone has had it whether they know it or not.” Maybe not. But she certainly underlines how much is so out of our control.

My control. I am staying out of the kitchen for now. Forgoing going hither and yon for the right smoked turkey, multi grain bread,  chocolate cherry rugelach and wild fish filet. On day two of five I did, however, bake a plum torte. I certainly couldn’t let those pre-Covid plums go to waste.