Sometimes you get to a point where your body just says – enough. Enough global Zoom calls, audit committees, stressful workdays, deadlines and unreliable colleagues. Enough commuting. Enough meal planning, prepping, grocery shopping, exercising, laundry and housework. Enough stressing over who will win the rojo jersey at La Vuelta. Enough driving your kiddo everywhere and letting her drive, keeping her calendar, planning for tailgates, helping out with marching band and making sure she has stuff for her lunches. Enough doctors appointments to try to keep up with the slow creep of age and its impacts, enough hair appointments, enough ortho adjustments. Enough EVERYTHING. And then you get Covid and are forced to do NOTHING.

Covid’s been chasing me around for a couple of weeks along with the usual ‘ick’ of the back-to-school germy stewpot. Last week was a corker. It was a stressful work week, with early morning global calls and late afternoon/evening audit grillings. I had inadvertently stacked appointments during my lunch hours, and the kiddo’s schedule is busy with fall band. On Thursday I had an anxiety attack and by yesterday morning I’d popped for Covid which threw everything into a tizzy. I’d been scheduled to help the marching band at that night’s game, and even though that was now obviously off the table, I wanted the also-sniffy kiddo to test to make sure she was okay to go. I’d gone to Urgent Care for my diagnosis, because there were no rapid tests available at any local pharmacy (are we back to this again? I had no idea) so a mom friend left a Canadian test on her porch for me to use with the kiddo. Luckily, she was and continues to be negative and so does Brandon which is good because by 3pm that day all I could do was crawl into bed and hate everything.

As much as it sounds appealing to just shed my responsibilities and let my household fend for themselves for a bit, it is actually hard. It’s difficult for me to do nothing and it’s difficult for me to have Brandon and the kiddo have to rely on each other for meals and other things. And it’s hard for me to ask for help when I feel too tired and weak to even make myself a cup of tea or rustle up something to eat. Luckily, Brandon is fantastic in these situations, has no fear of the Covid, and although I’m insisting on quarantining and wearing a K95 mask when I do have to venture out of my room, he is constantly sticking his head in my room to ask me what I need and how I am.

Despite not feeling well at all, truthfully it’s still a mild case. My major symptoms are congestion (my brother equates congestion to having a ‘sea cucumber’ living in his sinuses and this ‘sea cucumber’ has apparently decided to AirBnB in mine this weekend), a bad headache, and fatigue. The cats are taking care of me in shifts – Pot Roast usually has the night shift, Emmett gets the mornings, and Sarge the afternoons. I am missing out on a glorious fall Saturday here with the Harvest Moon festival in full swing downtown but with my feline companions and a couple of indulgent Kindle reads (’28 Summers’ may be a beach read but it’s also been great for Covid) I am doing just fine. I’m sure I’ll be back on my feet in no time and back to the usual pace.