Officially A Statistic

The girls give me love,
 but only if I feed them their tasties.

I’m fighting with the Covid. It’s rendered me down but not out. So far I’m winning. Or so I tell myself.

No, it’s not “just like a cold.” Of all the bugs I’ve outlasted and conquered, this is the most stubborn and dangerous since the pneumonia I whupped 12 years ago.

A decade older, I am reminded of my increased vulnerability. The medical staff I have paid for the past decade is basically inept and wholly unprepared to help me fight. They want me to trust drugs which could also kill me, that have been rushed through the approval process. I’m not a test dummy. Vitamin C, Zinc and a nettie pot are my weapons of choice. Oh yeah, also fluids and rest to boost my sheer determination.

Even as the mask mandate was lifted I dutifully kept wearing one. For the greater benefit of those I serve, vainly hoping it would somehow protect me as well.

We “got the jabs” and mostly avoided large gatherings. We fell victim to this invisible bastard anyway. One stubborn person floated it towards one of us, who infected three in my family with one cough/sneeeze/exhale. Whatever, I don’t have time or energy to search for the guilty spreader. I hope whoever it was also recovers. Perhaps they too are vaccinated and as surprised as I am having lost the viral lottery while our respective immune systems figure out how to beat this bitch down.

Beloved was the first to get sick, then our son. On July 4, her test showed that cowardly thin line, and infuriated me. “Why hide? False hope, maybe?”

The neighbors celebrate
from a sad distance.

Informing the few invitees of our Covid-infected July 4th party cancellation, I nursed Beloved. She already has several health issues, now this. It just saddened me.

Stubbornly I fired up the barbie and grilled the meat and corn. Prepared the pasta salad. Hoped my body would respond as it had when the kids were little and I was Doctor Dad who nursed them while fending off the crap which made them feel miserable.

Must have been quite a sad sight for our neighbors to see me across the street from the party. Alone and bummed, jumping up every few minutes to check on my sweetheart. She’s a fine warrior, but this is no common viral trespasser.

I still thought I would be immune to its intrusion. The next morning that thin line crept into my test, and it’s been no fun since.

Sure, management says, the medical leave is “protected”. You just need to tell them which bank of days off are acceptably sacrificial. Best of luck recuperating from Covid, but if you emerge from this assault your leave hour banks will be depleted and those coveted three day weekends will be even more scarce. Oh and make sure you don’t get sick again afterwards. Too much timeloss is a demerit on your attendance record. It’s acceptable for management to reduce the number of sick hours you spent the last year when we mistook an unrelated bug for the Rona. This robbed me of holding back that extra week of PTO as floating holidays. My crime? Taking care of myself when I’m sick, just like the flyers posted around our bullpens insisted. Funny how they disappeared along with that insulting sleight of hand.

No matter you have toughed it out over 28 months without being infected. Forget the choking smoke, devastating weather and constant fear of assault/attack. Although our being labeled “heroes” doesn’t mean we’re to be rewarded as such, who am I to complain? I should be thankful for the pittance of financial remuneration offered as our not-to-be-negotiated contract smolders within our aching souls.

All I need is to beat this. It’s my fight du jour. Future battles await. Meanwhile it’s time to broh by doze again.

Hang tough out there brothers and sisters. I’ll be back.