69. It Was Tough — But I Was Tougher.
Covid Found Me
Thirteen days after Hannah.
Eleven days after Hadley.
Ten days after Jessica.
Eight days after Tim.
A headache. A really bad headache. That was the only symptom every one of my family members had the day before they tested positive for Covid. “Watch for a headache,” I told my family and friends — if you get one, take a test and if it’s positive get Paxlovid!
I woke Friday morning with a headache and a sore throat. I dismissed the symptoms because they are side effects of a new drug I am on. I woke Saturday morning still in the grips of head and throat pain and when a nap beckoned me before noon, I dove head and throat first into a wonderful slumber.
I woke with a cough, a sneeze, and a wheeze, then stuck a stick up my nose when Hannah or Jessica handed me one.
“It’s positive,” Hannah whispered — or gasped. She handed the test strip to Jessica.
“The line is really faint and it showed up at 13 minutes. Let’s do another one.”
“Yeah! Let’s!” I joined in on the fun. While they prepped the test kit — the process took about 30 seconds — I headed into a full-blown panic attack. Think Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment, but instead of her screaming for her daughter’s pain medication, I channeled Shirley and screamed this.
“Paxlovid. Paxlovid. Paxlovid. Get me Paxlovid. No seriously, get it NOW NOW NOW!!! I’m going to die from Covid — I don’t want to die from Covid. Fucking Covid! Get Paxlovid NOW NOW NOW!!!”
“Mom, let’s do a second test,” Jessie suggested again and with an accompanying touch of her hand along my arm.
“You neeeeeed to calm down,” Hannah said in perfect mom tone. I have to tell you, her tone sort of pissed me off, but it was effective, so whatevs.
Test two was positive within seconds.
Sheryll O’Brien had Covid.
Fuck. My. Life.
Okay, I need to rant a bit here. Is this some perverse joke? Have I not yet had enough? I mean the only thing left of this shit fest is the actual dying part. Right? You know, the metastatic breast cancer of the bones, ‘excruciatingly painful’ death I was promised six months ago. That’s all that’s left. Right? Maybe not. Should I even care what kills me? You bet your ass I should — and I do. And I’d like to go on record with this: since I keep getting called to battle, I’d like to know if these ‘challenges’ are the handiwork of God or am I a character in a new William Shakespeare tragedy? Feels like it. Seriously, WTF?
Yeah, I said it.
God, Shakespeare and what the fuck all in the same sentence.
Oh, what horrors could await?
Anyway, back to my rant — did I misspeak somewhere along the way? Did I say bring it on, Big Guy? No, I did not. In fact, I distinctly remember asking — very politely, I might add — that I not be given more than I can handle. You were there. You read my words — I put them out there, several times if memory serves me well. “Please God, don’t give me more than I can handle.” I said that. Right? And I also asked him to think about my dear, elderly mother because she is being broken by every single piece of this shit fest — just sayin.
So what gives? Is there some reason why I’m being tested — I mean really tested during this final stretch of life? Is there a question as to whether I’m fit for Heavenly entrance? Am I paying penance for something I did or didn’t do during this lifetime? Am I supposed to be learning something? Teaching something? Surviving something?
Surviving something.
We may have a BINGO in the hall — hold your cards!
While I’ve been writing this blog, I’ve been texting with a relative. She said she doesn’t know why, but she is reminded of The Book of Job whenever she reads my blogs. I laughed out loud — seriously, the laugh out loud was way too big and full of delightful sounds to do an LOL.
For those unfamiliar with The Book of Job — and please note, I kinda count myself in that group because it’s been way too long since I cracked the spine of the Bible — but if memory serves me at all, this is the gist of things for Job. He was tested and tested and tested by God. I think the Devil had his hand in the whole testing decision. Anyway, after the decimation of poor Job’s life, and his steadfast refusal to turn away from God — He stepped in and blessed Job with the return of things that had been taken from him — really important things — like his health.
I texted Linda that I wasn’t sure why my blogs reminded her of Job, but that if it is God's will that my health be restored — if that is His plan for me — then I AM ALL-IN!!!
And then I texted her that I am three days into a bout of Covid.
I sooooo wish I could have been a fly on her wall when she read that text.
Nope. Nope. I don’t. I takesie-backsie that one.
No fly. No wall.
Moving on!
By the time I got Paxlovid into my system, I was in the grips of these Covid symptoms: headache, sore throat, stuffy head, congested and wheezing and rattling lungs, hacking cough, full body ache, low-grade temp and a bone-crushing fatigue. Given the state of my health, any one of the symptoms could do me in — given the state of my skeleton, the bone-crushing fatigue could kill me.
But Covid isn’t going to kill me. Not this time, anyway.
Thanks to PAXLOVID!
I am well into my battle with the illness. I am still sick, but I am in no way as sick as I was. My decline was fast and hard, but by the third dose of medicine, I could actually feel the Covid germs getting stopped dead in their tracks. Their advancement was halted and I stopped getting sicker — and then I started getting better.
My hospice nurse came today in full hazmat suit. She waved at the door and I waved her in. She smiled widely, as evidenced by the crinkle lines at the edge of her eyes. “You look good.”
“I am good.”
“And you sound so much better than when I talked to you, yesterday.”
“Paxlovid. The miracle cure for Covid.”
“I’ll say. So tell me about the symptoms you still have.”
“Cough. Wheezing and rattling chest. Body aches.”
“You’re less winded when you talk.”
“I know. And I’m coughing less which is good because I’m having pain in the ribcage and I’m so afraid I’ll break another one.”
“Is the cough productive?”
“Yes. And I’m using that blow thingy you gave me to really work my lungs.”
“Incentive spirometer.”
“Yeup.”
“Good. That’ll help. I didn’t think you would be feeling and looking this good this fast.” She did a little computer work, did another eyeball assessment, and moved us along. ”Let’s put the Covid review aside, get your vitals, and listen to your lungs.”
I gave my sidekick Jessica a smile, then answered the usual questions.
“How are you feeling overall? Any pain right now? Any pain since I was last here? Where was it? When did you experience it? How long was the episode? Did the Tramadol help? Have you had any headaches? Were they the tension kind or were they like a vice grip? Did you use Tylenol? Did the headache go away? Have you had any nausea? Did you use Zofran? Did the nausea go away? Right away? Are you having trouble sleeping? Are you waking because you’re in pain? Do you take a Tramadol if you wake? Does it help? How quickly? Are you having any trouble ambulating? Any pain when you’re standing or walking? Any skin issues? How’s your appetite? Are you eating? And you're drinking? How many fluid ounces? Any problems with your bowels? How about urination? How about …”