It has been almost a year now since I had covid, or at least since I know I had it. Last January my family got sick, and instead of being able to play my usual prideful and martyred role as the one who takes care of everyone else without getting sick, I got sicker. So much sicker that I issued death threats to those experts and friends who suggested that as long as one is vaccinated, covid is just like a slight cold or mild case of the flu.
For triple-vaxxed me, having covid was like swallowing broken glass after being run over by a bulldozer that stopped on your head and parked there, then bounced up and down. The comparison to flu would fit only if the flu was a cute furry toothless and clawless kitten and what I had a ravenous lion; a slight cold bears even less resemblance.
As I lay in bed asleep 23 hours per day and mostly incoherent the rest, the one thought I had was thank God I was vaccinated or I might be dead.
I still feel that way. It seems ridiculous to have to offer this disclaimer, but here we are: I am not an anti-vaxxer nor a conspiracy theorist. I also don't think you have to be one to wonder whether there's a relationship between the virus, the vaccine, and weird health problems you've had since acquiring both that weren't pre-existing.
Regular readers know my tale of woe; I have heart issues that hopefully are being resolved based on the theory a virus attacked my pericardium and created fluid buildup that caused low blood pressure, which resulted in fatigue and public fainting. This, after being called--because I fit the descriptor--"healthy as a horse" my entire life.
It has been interesting to navigate. The mention of my condition has evoked stories of other people who, like me, are vaxxed--science trusters also thrust into this weird space of wondering what long covid exactly is, how it may be manifested in us, and what, if anything, we can do about it.
A colleague younger than me has blood clots in her lungs. A teacher friend my age has heart things similar to mine; so does her husband. Google tells me there are a lot of us. And a lot who are a lot worse off; bless their literal and figurative hearts.
Uncertainty is not a comfortable part of the human condition, and yet we are confronted with it, it seems, at every turn. Learning to live with it in a measure of peace and joy is something that has intrigued me--that I have desired--since the first time I realized how unattainable certainty is in so many things that matter.
Global, national, and even state-level uncertainties are vertiginous. But I am speaking here of the micro level of life, not the macro. Like faith, relationships, jobs, the health and safety of those I love. And now, I have been made to extend that lack of certainty, which is really just the illusion of control, to my own health. Thanks, long covid. Or whatever else is wrong with me.
When I first succumbed to sick leave from teaching, I felt like I was tied to a bed or chair, like you see in movies when people are restrained and they fight against it. I am sure it was a combination of acceptance of my limitations as well as the merciful lifting of the worst ones (not being able to drive or go on walks) that helped me quit fighting so hard and relax.
I found myself entering into this deep rest. I don't really know what else to call it. I think it is mindfulness, but it feels like more than that. Maybe it is just a level of being present I never experienced before that I can remember.
I get my coffee in the morning and hold the cup in my hands and it nearly burns my fingers but stops shy of that. It feels good, so soothing to my skin. I rest it against my face. I smell the coffee, breathing in the steam. I feel it, too. It opens my pores. The frothy milk billows like clouds, and there's a sprinkle of cinnamon, and I am thankful Stone made it for me, and I know it is a miracle. A miracle we are together and care for each other in details like these after all of these years.
The dogs have been let in and out. There is one Boston terrier who has wriggled under the covers and another who stays on top but comes within reach to be petted. I admire his gathered velvet nose, bulging frog eyes, coat like a black satin gentleman. He turns over for his soft speckled belly and white tuxedo neck to be scratched. He breathes through his mouth, making growly snoring sounds, and I can see his tiny crooked teeth like a haphazard white picket fence. The underbite charms me. The pink tongue. I am slain by such things.
Then Stella comes in. It is 6:30 a.m. and she has a list of jobs for me to complete as her before-school aide. I pull on a robe that feels like feathers, step into slippers, and head to the kitchen for egg scrambling and lunch packing. Even the eggs seem a wonder. Laid by hard-working hens in a cute little coop Stone built at the edge of our yard. Their yolks are orbs of orange, like the sun; and I know I am lucky to feed farm-fresh food to my children.
Adelaide arrives in the kitchen with her soft touch and voice and presence. She is 15 going on 20, all legs and angel eyes. A few more months and she'll drive herself to school. But today I get the chance, the privilege of hearing her new favorite Taylor Swift song, dropping her off, and watching her sidle up to her friends.
Back home I'll drink water like the doctor ordered. I will sit in a comfy chair and pore over words as light streams through the etched glass of my front doors. I will notice how it dapples the rock floor of my entryway and appreciate the beauty. I will take deep breaths.
Lest I misrepresent the situation by making life sound too idyllic, let me assert: There is no shortage of things to disturb my peace. The phone buzzes constantly. I have, at the time of this writing, 6,812 unread emails. Stella throws up at school and has to be collected, Adelaide doesn't make the travel team, Stone has a parent scream at him on his morning bus route.
Harper and Grace are both on their own-ish. Crisco is $10. We have a cow out. The delivery person leaves packages where no human can find them but all manner of critters can, and do. The world is too much with us, like Wordsworth said. And it never fails to stir up intrusive thoughts of poverty--physical, moral, intellectual, emotional, and spiritual--all the many iterations that nourish the same root of evil, greed.
The gift of my forced exile is that in being stripped of any chimera of control, I have done the one thing I could do, and that is to be still. To cease striving and be here--all in--for the joys that are right in front of me.
Life, tomorrow, hopes, fears, the big things and even little things, are not certain. Only this moment is.
Gwen Ford Faulkenberry is an English teacher and editorial director of the non-partisan group Arkansas Strong. (http://arstrong.org) Email her at gfaulkenberry@hotmail.com.