By
Madeleine Kando
Day 1
Now, it is time to fly back home. Squeezed in the window seat, my glasses fogging up above a n95 mask, I am ready to zone out and pretend I am somewhere else for the next 6 hours. Long gone are the days when I fully enjoyed flying cross-country. The window shade is partially open, symbolic of my ambivalence about an experience that I used to find absolutely thrilling. Most of us think nothing of propelling ourselves at 500 miles an hour, at an altitude that only two bird species on earth are known to reach, but I was born two years before the first transatlantic commercial flights began, and there is still this sense of wonder in me. I open the window shade and endure the dirty looks from my co-passengers who are trying to sleep. I cannot get myself to be completely indifferent to this wonder of aviation.
That evening I collapse on my king-size bed and realize how exhausted I am. My throat doesn’t feel good, but I don’t give it a second thought. Home sweet home…
We install chicken wire around everything that we assume would go on a groundhog menu: Marigolds, nasturtiums, pansies.. I sprinkle ‘deer repellant’ around the raised beds, which is a terrible mistake. Its odor is so repulsive, that even I cannot go in the garden.
I crawl back in bed. An hour later, I look through our French doors and see a fat groundhog, probably the mother, blissfully eating away at a clover patch. She stares straight at me, her jaws working a mile a minute. A smaller version has materialized and follows in her footsteps. Like two efficient lawnmowers, they quickly decimate half of the clover patch.
I am banned to the bedroom. My daughter curses at me for not having been more careful. I am officially considered a leper. Just when my symptoms are starting to fade, I have to spend my time with the groundhogs, or in my bedroom.
My tongue is pasty from all the lozenges. My brother and sister are worried. They call me, Skype me, ask me if I am still alive. They have a point. Had I not been vaccinated and boosted, things could have been a lot worse. Statistics show that unvaccinated 65+ year-olds are 3.5 times more likely to be hospitalized and 4.2 times more likely to die of COVID-19.
Here is some food for thought: Even though the US is the biggest donor of vaccines worldwide, only 67% of Americans are vaccinated. Who knows, maybe I would not have been exposed, had there been a more common sense approach to vaccination.
I am now two weeks past Covid. I can breathe, swim, yell at the groundhogs and walk into stores with more confidence than I ever had. I know I am not immune to a second bout, but for now it feels like the world is my oyster. And that’s a great feeling to have at my age! leave comment here
What a wonderful time we had in San Francisco. Aside from the joy of being with my 10 year old grandson, there was the city with its parks, its architecture and its museums. Even without any of that, it would have felt like a get out of jail free card after so much time being cooped up in our own universe, back in Boston. For almost two years, we steered clear of the claws of this ruthless monster called Covid. We didn’t go to restaurants, we had friends over one at a time, no parties, no movies, no nothing.
Now, it is time to fly back home. Squeezed in the window seat, my glasses fogging up above a n95 mask, I am ready to zone out and pretend I am somewhere else for the next 6 hours. Long gone are the days when I fully enjoyed flying cross-country. The window shade is partially open, symbolic of my ambivalence about an experience that I used to find absolutely thrilling. Most of us think nothing of propelling ourselves at 500 miles an hour, at an altitude that only two bird species on earth are known to reach, but I was born two years before the first transatlantic commercial flights began, and there is still this sense of wonder in me. I open the window shade and endure the dirty looks from my co-passengers who are trying to sleep. I cannot get myself to be completely indifferent to this wonder of aviation.
That evening I collapse on my king-size bed and realize how exhausted I am. My throat doesn’t feel good, but I don’t give it a second thought. Home sweet home…
Day 2
The next day, my throat is painful. I can barely swallow. I have intense body aches and a great desire to stay in bed. I test myself for Covid, but I am negative. I go outside to inspect the vegetable garden and notice that little bites have been taken out of all the seedlings. Cukes, beans, peas, all rendered inedible. ‘Oh I forgot to tell you about the groundhogs, mom’, my daughter says.
We install chicken wire around everything that we assume would go on a groundhog menu: Marigolds, nasturtiums, pansies.. I sprinkle ‘deer repellant’ around the raised beds, which is a terrible mistake. Its odor is so repulsive, that even I cannot go in the garden.
I crawl back in bed. An hour later, I look through our French doors and see a fat groundhog, probably the mother, blissfully eating away at a clover patch. She stares straight at me, her jaws working a mile a minute. A smaller version has materialized and follows in her footsteps. Like two efficient lawnmowers, they quickly decimate half of the clover patch.
Day 3
My symptoms are worse. The lozenges are pretty much all I can tolerate. Having the flu is no picnic.
Day 4
I wake up and surprise myself. I can finally swallow! My joints still hurt and there is no relief from feeling tired. Something tells me that I should test myself again. A nasty dark red line appears under the letter ‘T’. How is that possible? I am vaccinated and boosted! I did everything I was supposed to do! I have been a good girl and I still test positive for Covid! Worst of all, in my blissful ignorance, I might have infected the whole family!
I am banned to the bedroom. My daughter curses at me for not having been more careful. I am officially considered a leper. Just when my symptoms are starting to fade, I have to spend my time with the groundhogs, or in my bedroom.
Day 5
I still cough uncontrollably. I still test positive. When I come out of the bedroom to pee, my husband and daughter take a step back. I hear that a lot these days: ‘Where is your mask? What you doin without your mask? Get back in your cage!’
My tongue is pasty from all the lozenges. My brother and sister are worried. They call me, Skype me, ask me if I am still alive. They have a point. Had I not been vaccinated and boosted, things could have been a lot worse. Statistics show that unvaccinated 65+ year-olds are 3.5 times more likely to be hospitalized and 4.2 times more likely to die of COVID-19.
Here is some food for thought: Even though the US is the biggest donor of vaccines worldwide, only 67% of Americans are vaccinated. Who knows, maybe I would not have been exposed, had there been a more common sense approach to vaccination.
Day 8
My friend Melissa calls me from New Hampshire to check on me. She has not been vaccinated because she says the vaccine would alter her DNA. No matter how many times I explain that the vaccine uses the messenger RNA and never enters the nucleus of cells, where the DNA is stored, she refuses to believe science. Besides, considering she is 78 years old, her precious DNA will die with her and not be passed on, altered or not.
I am now two weeks past Covid. I can breathe, swim, yell at the groundhogs and walk into stores with more confidence than I ever had. I know I am not immune to a second bout, but for now it feels like the world is my oyster. And that’s a great feeling to have at my age! leave comment here
