A woman in my Mahjong group tested positive for covid. She sends out an email. I sigh. This was bound to happen. It’s not like we haven’t paid attention to the virus in this retiree-dominated part of Texas. We’ve donned masks and washed our hands; but the bottom line is that none of us has a say over how many people someone else comes in contact with, or how often they socialize, or whether they wear masks or choose not to. Collectively, all our grown children who live elsewhere lecture us about being careful. We assure them that we’re being extremely cautious, when all the while we’re out dining and partying—all the way until nine o’clock at night sometimes! We’re busy here. David and I went day-drinking at a vineyard with friends last weekend. And David meets weekly with the guys at a local brewery. Truthfully, the only way our lifestyles have changed is that when we gather socially covid’s joined our other topics of conversation.
The likelihood of me catching covid from my Mahjong friend is practically zero. She was playing at another table, at least ten feet away from me. And I was sitting right in front of an open door.
However, she did stop by the table to talk for a few seconds. And someone who was at her table later joined us. Does this constitute exposure? The common view seems to be that if you’ve been exposed you should quarantine until you can get tested. I mention the situation to David, who isn’t happy. His social life is much busier than mine and he takes all his commitments seriously.
“Go get tested,” he responds.
“What a hassle,” I say.
He looks up the local testing places and tells me that a clinic on the highway takes walk-ins.
So I go on over there, but there’s a sign out front that says if you’re there for covid testing, you should stay outside and call the posted number—which I do. And over the phone I’m told that they don’t have an opening until early next week, which is the opposite of what walk-in means. Disgusted, I blow it off and come home.
But the next morning my nose is stopped up and my throat is itchy. This doesn’t necessarily mean I’m sick, because I have allergies and it’s that time of year.
Furthermore, I tend to vicariously experience characteristics and symptoms. If I hear someone has an ulcer, I get stomach pains. I once caught a brow tic from someone who had a twitching eyebrow. I have a friend who walks flat-footed with her toes pointed outward and I’ve been told that when I walk alongside her I, too, walk like a duck.
Is this trait indicative of hypochondria or self-absorption? Is it because I over-empathize or because I have an overly active imagination? Or is it that my mind has no control over my body; or that my mind has too much control over my body?
I don’t want to take a stopped-up nose seriously—until I realize that I have to because it would be unbearable if my carelessness caused someone to become sick. But to be honest, if they said on the news that the primary symptom of covid was an itchy armpit, then my armpit would be itching. I go to find David.
“It’s probably nothing,” I tell him. “But we’re going to have to quarantine.”
He starts making calls to cancel his obligations.
My appointment for rapid testing is on Tuesday morning, so I should be free after that. Meanwhile, we’re stuck at home; and sadly this is my month off from drinking. Also, while we have groceries enough to last us until I’m cleared, David has no ice cream, which makes him cranky.
Since we can’t go out anyway, we decide to refinish the deck. Power washing and wire brushing in the morning. In the afternoon I scoot along on my butt, painting the edges. Next, David will go after the middle section and stairs with the roller.
Having finished my part of the project, I realize that I still have hours of the day to kill. I don’t like the book I’m reading—Florence Adler Swims Forever. Because it’s a light-hearted title I assumed it would be a lighthearted book. It’s not. Spoiler—Florence dies in the first chapter. This author need to consider that a somber subject can be written in a way that doesn’t make the reader want to pull her hair out. Reluctant to return to unrelenting Jewish mourning, it occurs to me to write a blog; and though I don’t have anything to say, it’s my gift that I can write eight hundred and seventy words about absolutely nothing any day of the week, even on a Sunday dominated by covid.
Just to let you know, I checked on my Mahjong buddy and she’s doing fine, minimal symptoms. Her husband’s diagnosis was accompanied by pneumonia, so that’s more serious, but she says he’s feeling better. I understand this is an up-and-down disease, so I will keep them in my prayers.
Also, FYI: against the norm, I’ve decided that “covid” doesn’t deserve to be capitalized any more than “flu” or “measles.” Writer’s prerogative.
David takes painting seriously. The weather’s beautiful this time of year.
The finished deck. Much better.
