— Written from bed, with a fever of 100.1 (finally dropping), three empty water bottles, and a profound respect for human lungs.
I have watched the same episode of The Great British Bake Off three times in a row because I keep passing out and missing the ending. I have smelled my own candle collection trying to see if I still have a sense of smell (I don't. Lavender now smells like sad air). I have had a text conversation with my mother that consisted entirely of the "skull" emoji. It is now 5:15 AM as I wrap this up. The birds are starting to chirp outside. The first gray light of dawn is bleeding through my blackout curtains. The fever has broken, for now. I am sweating again, but this time it is a cold sweat. The kind that signals the storm is passing. i wrote this at 4am sick with covid
There is a specific, surreal kind of loneliness that only exists at 4 AM when you are sick with COVID-19. The rest of the world—your neighbors, your family, the delivery drivers, even the deer outside your window—is asleep. But you are awake. You are not just awake; you are aware . Hyper-aware of every breath, every ache in your lumbar spine, and the horrifying taste of DayQuil mixed with last night’s Gatorade. — Written from bed, with a fever of 100