Honestly, I’m scared. But I can’t show it. I have an 11-year-old daughter who was crying yesterday as I left for my doctor’s appointment.
I wake with a start to flashing lights, blue and blinking against the darkness of my bedroom. Numbers. My body feels heavier than normal, like I have aon, but I don’t. It’s on the living room couch. The base of my skull aches. So does my lower back. 88, 88, 88. It’s not changing. That number is meaningful. I know it. Oh, yes. It’s the year I graduated
“But, mum. I’m not dying. I’ve been to the doctor. I’m not even sick enough to be hospitalized. My pulmonologist gave me dexamethasone and azithromycin just yesterday. He ordered home oxygen and instructed me to sleep on my belly. I’m not even sick enough for my insurance to approve same day oxygen delivery. I’m even healthy enough to be up writing this diatribe at 2:43 in the morning. Well, actually it’s fear that’s keeping me awake. But shhh..don’t tell anyone.
I turned 50 a week into quarantine. Everyone was still adjusting. No one had their acts together yet. There was no car parade or zoom party for my milestone COVID birthday. I transitioned to middle age with little fanfare. The only card I received in the mail was my AARP card. Strangely, that was also the last month I menstruated. It would seem my current event stress tolerance had finally reached a tipping point that kicked me into menopause.
It’s been a tough few months for all of us, but my daughter in particular is struggling the hardest. She has not adjusting well to the sequestration, the home schooling, or having to go cold turkey on a pretty serious chipotle addiction. My 14-year-old son, on the other hand, is thriving. “I’m an introvert, mom. I was built for this!” He retreats to his bunk bed lair where he is now master of his destiny in Minecraft Dungeons, Stardew Valley and the Binding of Isaac.
Two weeks to the day of his first symptom, my husband crashed. It was a Monday. He was working from home at his cool new suction standing desk sipping coffee and feeling fine at 10 am. He came into the kitchen, where I was homeschooling the kids at 10:30 saying his legs felt funny. “Honey, I don’t feel quite right. I feel like my knees are going to just give out underneath me. I’m going to lie down for a bit.
I knew from my experience, septic patients whose blood pressures drop dangerously low need multiple liters of fluid to perfuse their organs, not the equivalent to two cups of water. I started screaming and crying on the phone. Not my best moment.
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