My COVID-19 Experience

 

Walking to Grandma's house on Christmas day.

Merry Christmas!

As Minnie Pearl would often say, I’m just so proud to be here, and I hope you are, too.  There’s nothing quite like a bout with a new to science, new to the human population virus to make one appreciate being able to get up and take a deep breath in the morning, and such was my gift this Christmas.  Thank you, Jesus!

It started with body aches.  Or maybe it was the unusual rash that appeared (and itched like crazy) on my back two days before.  Or the headache that I just couldn’t shake the day before that.  They say that COVID-19 is not like the flu, and now that I have experienced both for myself, I would agree.  Unlike the flu, which would hit me fast and hard, the COVID-19 virus came on slowly for a couple of days before really settling in.  By the time I realized I really was getting sick, I’d already gone hiking with a few friends, been to the grocery, and kissed my husband and hugged on my kids.  And yes, I wore a mask to the grocery, social-distanced, all that.  Thankfully, nobody I was in close contact with during that time got sick (even the employee who helped me use the self-checkout at the grocery).

I know it is starting to sound cliche’, but I have no idea how I got it.  The two weeks prior, I hadn’t been within 6-feet of anyone unmasked outside of my immediate family, with three exceptions, and those three people were not ill.  Perhaps one of those three was an asymptomatic carrier, but if that were the case, I would think others in their social circles would also be getting COVID-19, and that does not seem to be the case (I live in a small town so everyone knows who everyone hangs with around here, LOL!).

Anyhow, I wonder if I may have been exposed to the virus months ago and it lingered in my body until my immune system weakened.  And that doesn’t take much, as my body already struggles with an auto-immune disease diagnosed in 2002 (interstitial cystitis).  But really, I’m not sure any of that matters, anyway.  I knew that living any kind of life beyond sequestering ourselves in our house meant accepting an element of risk, and I have no regrets about that.

Uncertain of exactly when my “Day 1” began, we quarantined for longer than the recommended 14-days, which, considering our homesteading, homeschooling, teleworking lifestyle, really wasn’t all that difficult.  I spent 9 days in bed, the longest in my life, other than the period of bedrest required when I was pregnant.  My body cycled between chills, fever, and body aches that would come and go over and over for about four days.  I never had a cough, not even a tickle in my chest, and no issues with breathing.  Nasal congestion was minimal and there was no sore throat. I never lost my appetite nor my strength, which I found quite odd and very unlike the flu.  My single worse symptom was intense back pain around my kidneys, which lingered for a couple of weeks and even today, re-emerges if I over-do it and get fatigued.  After the first week of symptoms, I lost all sense of taste and smell, completely, thus confirming that I definitely had COVID-19.  One month later, I have regained only some of my taste and smell, making Christmas treats a bit of a downer, but giving me the perfect penance for Advent.

Other than that, life is mostly back to normal now.  We had the most beautiful first day of Christmas yesterday, complete with snow, which happens only about 10% of the time here in southern Kentucky.   Joah requested a snow shovel for Christmas (along with a hard hat and pruning saw…not your ordinary kid), so I guess God decided to send some snow to go along with it.  I still get easily fatigued, and Christmas Eve, with all its preparations, combined with kids pulling out all their “behaviors”, almost did me in, but my heroic husband came to my rescue and sent me to take a nap while he picked up the slack.  He has been my saving grace during all the days that I have been out-of-pocket, and in God’s mercy, he has stayed healthy and strong. 

It is not lost on me how serious this virus is for so many.  While I was ill, a friend of mine lost her mother to COVID-19 and my heart breaks for her.  Others we know of are having serious lingering effects.  I certainly do not want this post to appear to downplay its effects.  I have very elderly parents and friends with chronic conditions, and I fear for all of them, and would not knowingly put any of them at risk nor encourage them to take unnecessary risks.

Still, I am grateful now to have had it.  In some ways, it is a relief to have been through it and have it over with, much as having a root canal or giving birth feels.  I often reflect on my life and think about all the times God has given me another day; times when only my guardian angels or modern medicine have saved me.  I’ve been living on borrowed time for a long time now, and I am thankful once again to be able to fight another day.  I guess God has more work for me to do.

I pray that you have a most blessed Christmas season, and I will see you in the coming year, Lord willin’. 

 

Pleasure Without The Pain

The morning sun was warm on my face this morning as I stepped outside.  I should have been deer hunting, considering the mornings that are above freezing during a November deer season are few and far between. Yet, as much as I love watching the sun come up and hearing the forest come to life, I also hate cold toes and frozen fingers.  This morning, I could have had the pleasure without the pain.  But instead, I slept in, thinking only about the pain I was escaping instead of the joy I may have been missing.    

Novembers in Appalachia usually go in one of two directions climatologically.  Some years, we have days upon days of cold, cloudy, wet weather with gray trees silhouetted by gray skies.  Other years, we have starry mornings, bright blue skies and days upon days of sunshine.  There usually is no middle ground in an Appalachian November; the days are either extremely depressing or incredibly uplifting.  Perhaps it is in God’s mercy that he chose to give us the latter for 2020. 

The kids and I have made the most of these extended Indian summer days.  We’ve taken up a new hobby:  mountain biking.  Yesterday, we biked almost 10 miles, half on trails and half on roads.  The week before that, we did 8 miles on backroads through the forest, and the week before that, 4 miles to the river and back.  Other than a few “Oh s#$%” moments and an aching tailbone at the end of the day, it has been glorious.  I had forgotten what it felt like as a child to climb on a bike and race down the road, wind in my face, feeling like I was escaping the confines of my home and the reality of my world.  How ironic that as a 51-year old housewife, I still feel the same.  

On each of our rides, we inevitably pass a cemetery or two.   Appalachian forests are full of cemeteries.  I was pleased with my boys when, without prompting, they stopped their bikes at each cemetery to offer a prayer for the dead.  Earlier in the month, we spent All Souls' Day making a pilgrimage to five cemeteries, saying a decade of the rosary at each.  The kids made gravestone rubbings and recorded the names of whomever they felt led by the Holy Spirit to pray for.  When we returned home that evening, we wrote those names on our Remembrance Candle and have lit it each night as we prayed for all those on it. Since that day, we’ve written the names of three more friends on that candle who have passed on to eternal life since the month began.  I often wonder who’s name will be next.  If 2020 has made me aware of anything, it is that.

I made my weekly run to the grocery store this morning as I do most Saturday mornings.  The store was already crowded, despite it being only 8:30 a.m.   Old ladies were buying frozen pie crusts, one young couple was debating about the size of turkey to buy, and the onion and yam kiosk overflowed to capacity.  As I scanned my groceries at the self-checkout, I chatted with the employee who is there every Saturday and knows my routine.  We know each other by name now, and always enjoy making small talk.  Today, she told me that it was on Thanksgiving Day last year that her husband went to the hospital and I saw her eyes fall.  I did not ask any questions.  I already knew that today, she is a widow. 

I took the mac n cheese, Vienna sausages and tuna fish that I’d bought at the grocery and dropped them off at the Blessing Box.  Noticing that someone had left trash around the base of the statue of the Blessed Mother nearby, I walked over to her and picked it up.  The sun was even warmer now, and when I stopped to remove my jacket, I noticed a middle-aged lady in a motorized wheelchair had already spotted me placing food in the Blessing Box and was approaching it.  I smiled at her and waved and I suppose she smiled back behind the mask she was wearing.  I finished cleaning up around the statue and noticed that people had been putting small stones around our Blessed Mother’s feet.  As I prepared to leave, I checked the Blessing Box and it was already empty again. 

And now, I sit in our local library, mandatory mask on my face, typing quietly in the corner.  The ladies at the front desk discuss the people they know who have COVID-19 and I think about my own friend who often hikes with me on Saturday mornings, but today, is in quarantine on this lovely weekend.  Sitting here, I look at the periodicals in the magazine rack:  TIME magazine has a cover photo of Biden and Harris with the headline “Time to Heal”;  National Geographic proclaims “A World Gone Viral”, Working Mother magazine asks the question “Now What?” and Liberty magazine ponders “The Collapse of Liberal Democracy?”  Next to the magazines stand three large racks of paperback novels, all with broken spines and worn-out covers, evidence that they are clearly the most-read books in the entire library.  They are divided into two major categories:  romance novels on two racks, westerns on the other.  Escapism for each gender.

After this, I’ll return home.  We are making a brisket for supper and inviting a family to join us.  They, like us, homeschool, and share much of our philosophy, not to mention a love of good BBQ. This past summer, they spent most of their time hiking the Appalachian Trail.  When not hiking, they were camping near the trail, performing “trail magic” for other hikers, which basically means, meeting long-distance hikers along the trail and providing them with hot meals and snacks, shuttles and friendly and encouraging conversation. He’s a military veteran who speaks his mind but makes a lot of sense.  He has already been suspended on social media twice, or maybe it’s three times now.  I’m starting to lose count.  He and his wife are pretty sure their family had COVID-19 last month but did not get tested.  They isolated and rode it out, like most of us will have to do. 

So, I will head home and make a cake and some beans to go along with the meat-fest my husband is preparing.  We’ll enjoy sitting in this warm November sunshine and chatting while the kids do flips on the trampoline and race bikes.  A friend told me that we should never have gotten that trampoline, by the way, because they are so dangerous.  She’ll never let her daughter on one, she said.  I don’t doubt she’s right.  And yesterday, flying down the hill on that mountain bike, I saw myself for a second heading to the ER, or one of my kids.  Heck, we’ve already spent most of 2020 nursing my son’s broken elbow, thanks to a bike accident he had in late April.   But I doubt my friend has ever done a flip on the trampoline or flown down a hill on her bike. "Couch potatoes are the new heroes of 2020" was a headline I saw this past week.

Today is supposed to be the last warm and sunny day we have for a while.  This week will bring cloudy skies and rain.  Deer gun season will end this coming weekend, and the Christmas music will start playing in the stores.   I don’t expect I’ll be able to get another bike ride in with the boys for quite some time now, maybe not until spring.  I fear it will be a long winter, once it finally arrives.

 

 

He Will Not Win

It’s raining, a far cry from where we were this time last year, when our 41-day drought finally ended.  I had said my rosary daily during that dry period, desperately praying for only enough rain to keep our fall garden alive, while watching my broccoli plants, kale, collard greens, and arugala shrivel up and turn brown.   And in the end, our Blessed Mother heard me; our good Lord sent the rain and we were eating freshly picked broccoli for Christmas.  God always gives enough.

Tomorrow brings to an end another series of daily rosaries for me, as I finish day 54 of my 54-day novena.  However, this time, I was not entering into October desperately praying for rain.  Instead, I was desperately praying for my marriage.

This week, on October 13, we will be celebrating 19 years of matrimony.  It has been a hard-earned 19 years.  I do not write much about marriage, mostly because I don’t feel like I’m very good at being married.  I also don’t write often about parenting because I don’t feel like I’m very good at that, either.  If, by their fruits, you will know them, then both my marriage and parenting skills leave a lot to be desired, because the fruits of both are sparse and sometimes pretty rotten.  So often, I think God has picked the wrong person to tend this vineyard that I call my family.

Of course, that is the devil talking.  My feelings, my judgement of myself, my perspective, mean very little in God’s eyes, especially when being obscured by self-doubt and self-pity.  How much time have I spent reflecting upon my own desire for a different kind of husband, different kinds of children?  Too much.  Much, too much.

It was a moment of revelation that showed me how close I was to losing it all.  My husband packed his suitcase and I could see in his eyes that it was no joke.  Adding to the stress, our autistic son had kicked another hole in the wall, broken the door of our heirloom hutch, and was threatening to hurt his father in yet another fit of unexplainable rage that was becoming almost a daily occurrence.  There were late night arguments, too much yelling, too much judging, too much blaming, and too much bullying.  A demonic atmosphere began to take hold in the home, and every moment of peace or attempt to pray was being disrupted.  The perfect storm was brewing and we were all spinning in its vortex.

That’s when I began the 54-day rosary novena.  I prayed it every day, desperately.  And things got worse.  I kept praying, and things got even worse.  I got worse.  The temptation to yell, rant, and fall into self-pity became stronger, and the opportunities to do so became more frequent. I struggled to resist the urge to give into my bad habits.  I encouraged my husband to go on a much-needed get-a-way that lasted 14 days. We both needed to re-set. Staying home with the kids, one of whom was very dysregulated, would be a sacrifice that I could offer up to Jesus with the intention that He heal my marriage. I was determined to stay in the spiritual battle and fight my true Enemy, who I was beginning to realize was not my family.  I added fasting to my battle plan and centered my thoughts on one word, humility, the supreme virtue from which all other virtues come. 

With each day of reflection upon this virtue, I became more and more aware that my lack of humility was the means by which I was allowing the Enemy to tear apart my family and allowing me to fall into sinful behaviors.  The intense desire to be loved and feel validated was my idol, and I would stop at nothing to protect it.  “I only need reassurance,” I would plead with my husband, even after he’d try to express an apology that I felt just wasn’t “good enough”.  “Why did God give me such terrible kids?” I often moaned in self-pity, completely overlooking the blessing that I had in each of these children I’d prayed so long for. 

I began saying the Litany of Humility and it left a bad taste in my mouth.  How could I truly desire such things?  Don't I deserve to be loved? Deserve to be wanted, honored, praised for doing good, acknowledged for being right?  The more I thought and prayed about it, the more I came to realize that I've spent most of my life trying to achieve these very things. Now, I found myself praying to be released from them.  It was, and is, very uncomfortable.

Sadly, for too long, I have been focused more on receiving love than giving it.  Oh yes, I have done countless small deeds with what appeared to be great love, but it was not true love, because I was not practicing true humility.  My small deeds, when not returned with affirmation or validation, particularly from those closest to me, rapidly turned into the seeds of contempt that, over time, caused my vineyard to be overtaken by weeds and not bountiful fruit. 

It has been a rocky road, these past 54 days, and these past 19 years.  My husband returned from his 14 days away, renewed and ready to try again, but the Enemy came after us harder a few days later, and we (I) gave in to our old behaviors.  In the midst of that, I read this past week’s Gospel reading, in which Jesus made it loud and clear to me, saying:

“When an unclean spirit goes out of someone,
it roams through arid regions searching for rest
but, finding none, it says,
‘I shall return to my home from which I came.’
But upon returning, it finds it swept clean and put in order.
Then it goes and brings back seven other spirits
more wicked than itself who move in and dwell there,
and the last condition of that man is worse than the first.”  (Luke 11: 24-26)

And that is how it has always been, and always will be.  The battle I must fight for my marriage, my children, my own soul, will never end until my time ends.  I see it clearer now, in part because I have come very near to losing the battle and the Enemy revealed himself to me.  Yet, I have complete trust in Our Lady and her Fatima promise, and I know that if armed with the Most Holy Rosary and the virtue of humility, he will not win. 

Our Lady, Virgin Most Powerful, pray for us.