This writing thing is a funny business. Sometimes, when something happens, the first thought is, “I’ll have to figure out a way to write about this.” I don’t know why occurrences can become stories and others not. Last Sunday, Covid and I met for the first time and that’s where we can begin this one. My motorcycle was down with mechanical difficulties, a first in the many years and miles we have been together. According to my grandson, it was a sign and through the magic of hindsight, I am inclined to agree.
I didn’t really feel sick, but I just wasn’t quite right, a state of mind very difficult to describe. I put the lanky Q tip up each nostril, twirling it around, as my eyes watered, with a sneezing fit that briefly exploded my head. After the requisite amount of time, the dreaded pink stripe came to life on the little strip of treated paper. For 2 1/2 years, I had luckily waltzed around the various incarnations of the virus, optimistically thinking I was just going to beat it. Believe me, I had no illusions about being special, just lucky.
I have never been one of these people, who prepares for most anything that may or may not happen. I had several days worth of breakfast in the fridge and zero dinners. It’s funny how we speculate about things happening to us, but denial rules the roost for me. I never have extra rolls of toilet paper or gallons of water, not even candles. So, there I was on that Sunday afternoon, the little pink line poking me in the eye, waiting for me to do something, anything.
Being brilliantly pragmatic, the very first thing I did was slap on a mask and get some Chinese food to take out. I headed home to begin my forced incarceration for who knows how long. The reason why I took this test in the first place is because I felt as if something wasn’t quite right. I really can’t define the feeling, simply an invisible hunch. It’s like I broke into a million pieces and then came back together, looking exactly the same as I did just before, but looking closely, a few of the pieces are ever so slightly askew. You know something is wrong, but you can’t quite put your finger on it.
I went home and immediately looked around to see what I had to address this crisis. True to form, I didn’t even have a damn thermometer, let alone Ibuprofen. The easiest thing is to go through life, assuming everything will be just fine, making zero provision for a down turn in your good fortune. I am a poster child for the Head in the Sand trophy.
I had no choice, but to rely on the “kindness of strangers.” My daughter-in-law is the person you want to have in moments of crisis, because she instantly becomes a five-star general, creating and executing a winning strategy. I shared the news on Monday morning and the next I knew, there were two bags of food and provisions sent to my house and I have never even asked how she did it. There were even Pepperidge Farm chocolate cookies! Before I knew it, I was now the proud owner of a thermometer and aspirin, thanks to a friend. Laura insisted I get the anti-viral meds that actually work, which I did and they did. By Monday afternoon, I was physically set for the week ahead, but my mind was ill prepared for what followed.
In this world, we are now becoming victims of our own handiwork. While it is true we have always been doing shit to each other, nature has now entered the ring and we are no match for her. While a ruthless climate and the ghosts of disappearing species are our brashest opponents, we can’t overlook their tag team partner, mystery illnesses, born and reborn because of us.
Why do I bring this up in the midst of my own, very small story? This Darth Vader virus kept me company for the week. While my body was pretty much asymptomatic, my mind was invaded by a very sinister force. I am not one of those people, who believes absolutely everything is a hoax and nothing is what it appears to be. To me, from the very beginning, there was always something very unsettling about the evil nature of this venom. This bastard played with my marbles in ways I can’t describe, best left right there.
Yeah, I am pretty much better now, but there is something about 19 that still lingers. Every other day or so, I take my temperature with my new thermometer, thinking this fucker has left footprints inside me, some lingering physical manifestation, contradicting its invisibility.
The good news is Flaming Lips is back together again and so am I, pretty much.
Gotta ride now!