We Survived Covid
I’ve never been one to keep a perfect diary. My memories are more like sticky notes—half finished, scattered, and crumpled at the bottom of a purse. But I do remember this season of life vividly, probably because Covid practically steamrolled through our house.
When the world shut down, our little corner of life didn’t stop entirely. Craig kept going to work. The kids and I played family games, and we still shopped and lived somewhat normally—though with restrictions and precautions.
By the end of summer, Luka started football practice. I planned to homeschool him and Aubrey, while Kadon would attend in person. One evening, after I picked Luka up from practice, he mentioned that his body hurt. That seemed odd, but I chalked it up to tough conditioning drills. The next morning, he spiked a fever. When we all got tested, he came back positive.
For the next two weeks, Luka quarantined in the library. I sat with him and worked through his school assignments. As soon as he recovered, Kadon tested positive and took his turn in the library, enjoying the same two-week sentence of schoolwork, television, and being waited on hand and foot. Both boys had only a brief fever, followed by endless hours of lounging with a remote in hand.
Then it hit me. My body ached, my fever climbed, and within a day, I could barely move. Craig soon followed, despite having just finished installing the metal roof on our detached storage shed. He became so weak that climbing down the ladder nearly ended in disaster.
We collapsed into bed and stayed there for the next two and a half weeks. A couple of days in, Craig drove us to the local hospital. I was so weak I needed a wheelchair just to check in at the counter. The doctor confirmed we were positive and sent us home with instructions to alternate ibuprofen and acetaminophen every three hours. That advice was fine in theory, but I was so foggy I couldn’t remember which pill I’d taken or when I’d taken it. We didn’t talk, we didn’t watch TV. We just shuffled to the bathroom, swallowed pills, and slept.
Every night I went to bed hoping tomorrow would be better. Every morning I woke up feeling just as miserable as the day before.
Meanwhile, the grandmas took charge. They delivered frozen meals so the kids had something to heat up. I honestly have no idea what else my children did during that stretch—I was completely out of commission.
After that, I took Covid seriously. We canceled Thanksgiving. We skipped all holiday gatherings. By Christmas, the best we could manage was a bonfire in the driveway. Wrapped in coats and blankets, we exchanged “Secret Santa” gifts under the winter sky.
Looking back, I’m half impressed we survived it and half embarrassed by how much TV my kids watched. If Covid ever comes knocking again, I’m ready… well, sort of. At least I’ll keep better notes about which pill I swallowed when.
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