I’ll tell you what’s worse than a long bout of illness: getting better, then relapsing.
COVID breached Fortress Frank (two shots, three boosters) on Nov. 28. The next week was a blur. I napped, graded papers, binged on TV (“White Lotus,” ancient “Seinfelds”).
I didn’t feel awful, most of the time, just slightly off, like sour milk – good for a batch of pancakes, but not much else.
It’s hard to describe that feeling of being a little bit sick: mild headaches, scratchy throat, raspy voice (symptoms of the newest Omicron variants). Nothing hurt.
When, toward the end of that first week, I felt well enough to trade sweats for real pants and go for a stroll, I felt like I was promenading on the deck of a ship. The wooziness was all physical — no brain fog (no dip in my crossword solve times, anyway).
I tested negative on Dec. 5 and again on Dec. 7. Hallelujah.
The New York Times just ran a story about couples who are “living apart together.” I thought it was going to be about couples like me and my wife, who, because one has COVID and the other doesn’t, are living in separate parts of the house and masking when their paths cross.
Instead, we were introduced to couples who are still very much together romantically, but prefer to live independently, in separate apartments. In which case maybe we’re living together apart.
Dec. 9 was supposed to be Normalcy Night: We planned to discard our masks, have a cocktail, eat at the same table and sleep in the same bed. But I faded as the day wore on and when I tested that evening I was back to positive.
So much for our Friday night date.
Next day was my worst since the first two. Back to the sweats. Back to bed.
I’d been warned this might happen: the Paxlovid rebound (Paxlovid being an anti-viral cocktail recommended for us geezers), it’s called, defined as a recurrence of symptoms after they appear to have cleared up.
Sunday was a little better. But still: a bright red positive line on Tuesday. Didn’t want to know on Wednesday. Paler but unmistakably positive line on Thursday.
Was there no end?
If you’ve ever wondered where the time goes, I can tell you: It goes to the world’s sickrooms. Never have the hours moved more slowly. Tuesday felt like it should be Thursday. 1 a.m. felt like 5.
And so, TV. Did you watch “White Lotus?” I watched the first two episodes, decided I’d seen enough, but let a friend talk me into watching the rest.
I wasn’t sorry — it held my interest the way train wrecks proverbially do — and, well, aside from debating whether this or that student deserved a B+ or an A-, I didn’t have much else to do. But I don’t think the series merited all the attention it’s gotten.
The New York Times has run seven “White Lotus” stories in the past month, including one on the Gen Z characters’ fashion faux pas.
About as many stories appeared in the Washington Post, including a guide to visiting the places in Sicily where the series was shot. Here we saw the usual travel-writing blather: “postcard-perfect” destinations; places that are “a step back in time”; cities that feel “like a fairytale”; cities with “labyrinthine streets.”
Cooped up though I’ve been, such treacle made me want to stay away, and not just from soon-to-be-overrun Sicily. Vapid people traveling makes traveling itself seem vapid. Yes, the eye never has enough of seeing, as it says in Ecclesiastes, but I’ve never felt comfortable with idling in a foreign land while local folk are busy.
As for the popularity of “White Lotus,” I suppose it’s a two-fer: You get to ogle beautiful people in a beautiful place while seeing that those beautiful people are no happier than the rest of us schmegegges. Thus is slain the green-eyed monster.
And speaking of envy: When I gave a fellow COVID sufferer a sneak peek at the lead of this column, she reminded me that the two of us are in an enviable position compared to those our age whom COVID has carried off.
Ah yes. The obligatory to-be-sure paragraph (as in: To be sure, I’ve gotten off easy…). It’s true, though.
Still, there’s a reason why that schlemiel Sisyphus lives on in our lore — because when you’ve rolled that boulder to the top of the mountain, even if it’s a small one, you hate to see it roll back down.
Which is why I’m happy to report that I tested negative on Sunday – three weeks in. This time, I think I’m in the clear – for now.
And on that positive note, I bid you happy – and healthy! – holidays. See you in 2023.
