Scars on the Body & Brain

Writing Post-Covid

Belated Happy New Year to you all! There is something about the empty page. It’s been said time and again: its daunting blankness or its inviting possibility. Today, I sit at the computer at the customized pink page and a pillow behind my back.

My last post was in November 2024. My second Covid-19 infection was at the end of November 2024. Because of the current political and social climates, masks are not enforced or encouraged outside of small enclaves of persisting Covid-19 activists who do not have the luxury of the risk of reinfection. Thanks to their research and communication, I’ve stayed masked. I’m the sole masker at my current workplace. My partner and close friends mask. But all of this is not enough if not everyone in your household masks.

And so, because I don’t mask inside my home, I was infected by another family member. This family member is on their fourth Covid infection with the firm belief that reinfection makes them stronger. All the while, this person is more aggressive behind the wheel, more impatient, and more forgetful. I was devastated at my positive test. I remained in my room the full 14 days (while other folks who were infected in my home emerged after 5). My first infection was already incredibly hard for me physically and mentally. My fitness, obviously, all but diminished completely. My existing executive dysfunction became worse. And my memory, my beloved memory, also became worse. This did not bode well for my second infection.

Much to my dismay, my fears were correct. I had the same symptoms as a “general” Covid-19 infection and more. I had chest pain and intense GI symptoms. These new symptoms followed me after my negative test. I was winded walking up the stairs. My hard earned fitness, again, diminished. My second infection interrupted a lot of exciting events for me: I stopped my hula lessons, jiujitsu lessons, and violin lessons. How could I dance or grapple or play if I could hardly stand? Assignments for my MFA were due, and I could not bring myself to complete anything. Writing a sentence was daunting, let alone an entire essay. I could not read.

I grieve for my health and my youth, what my body would have and could have been if we had upheld masking, if we all continued to mask. I held my anger towards the people in my life who claim they love me. How could someone avoid testing when sick? What of our duty to each other? Our responsibility?

All of this to share to say that I’m one of the lucky ones. Only time will tell the lasting damage my body and mind has endured. What lurks around the corner for me? Preventing another infection is of dire importance. By the third reinfection, the roulette for getting Long Covid goes up exponentially. I have to protect my baseline. Please protect your baseline.

I’m one of the lucky ones. I’m one of the lucky ones. This echo is meant to hang in the air and sit with you. I don’t know if I’ll be lucky again should I be reinfected. Because I am lucky, I rested. I took the time to rediscover my baseline. So, here I am, three months later. Wanting to be a writer. Wanting to share and create. Having so much to say during this scary, violent point in time. But we have each other. We must care for each other.

And so we continue.