I finally got COVID

Turns out: not fun!

I’m sure you have read a dozen accounts like this by now. You’ve probably had COVID at this point and recovered from it.

Now, I don’t tell this story to demonize anyone’s views or anything. It’s just a story about how much it sucks to get COVID told through my cracked lens, sharpened by past experiences. I got sick last year in March, but I tested negative for COVID and was fine in two days, so I’m not really counting that.

Last weekend I was in Florida for the IMLCA Holiday Tournament. My parents have a condo about 30 minutes from the site of that tournament, so they graciously allowed me to stay in their guest room. I decided to stay a few more days to spend time with them because I am the A+ No. 1 son and need to keep my ranking heading into the holidays. Also, it was cheaper than a hotel.

It started Monday night. My joints were starting to ache in ways that made me feel like I had to crack or pop all of them at once.

I went to bed early and woke up groggy. I grabbed my phone to check my Whoop recovery score.

3%.

How is that possible? I slept for over 8 hours.

Then I clicked on the info button. Every stat was lit up in orange or red. I screenshotted that and sent it to my parents.

“We have a problem.”

The chills hit first, then the fever followed. My shoulders screamed in unison like someone had stuck screwdrivers between them and wrenched them back and forth. My ankles both wailed like unpopped banshees. I grunted every time I moved.

Then I took the COVID test.

You know, I thought I was prepared to see a positive result. I wasn’t. I sent all my work in and hunkered down for a doomed war with myself. It’s weird, but I felt a…shame about it. Like, how could I get this now? How tacky.

I spent the rest of the day watching Below Deck: Adventure and feeling sorry for myself.

I woke up in the middle of the night and staggered to the bathroom. I could feel that I was wet with sweat. I felt something sort of snap inside me, like right before a tree falls, but instead of a sound it was just motion. The last thing I saw was the outside of the toilet bowl. I woke up again face down on the bathroom floor. I remember thinking, “This bed is really cold. And hard. Oh. I’m on the floor.”

I looked up and saw my parents in the shadows, too panicked to come in and help me up, encouraging me to move. Loudly. Harshly. I pushed against the floor and threw myself into the next room, hoping to land on the bed. I got to the corner and clawed my way up. I rolled into the center and kept saying, “I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.” My mother kept saying, “We’re taking you to urgent care.” I kept saying no. I don’t remember much after that. Just saying that I was okay.

The moment right before that fall was the most scared I’ve been since 2017. Why 2017? It was the day that John Grant junior retired from the MLL (the first time, with the Ohio Machine) and I had a sudden pain in my stomach. I doubled over and fell on the ground. I crawled to the bathroom in my old apartment. I threw up. I called my girlfriend at the time, but I couldn’t get real words out. She raced over and brought me to the hospital. The pain in my stomach was multiplying exponentially. By the time we got to the Emergency room, it was all I could do to keep from screaming. By the time a doctor saw me I had lost the ability to communicate. All I could hear was white noise. Then I heard screaming. Then I realized it was me. The doctor told me he was going to give me morphine. I kept screaming. Then it all went black.

A day or so later I woke up in a hospital bed. I stayed there for three days. My roommate was a World War Two vet who asked me where his wife was whenever we were both awake together. That was between shots of Dilaudid which I begged for every few hours because the pain in my midsection was so intense. I dreaded every shot even though I knew I needed it. Every time it hit me it felt like a shadowy hand rose up from the floor and dragged me halfway to hell but stopped, leaving me inside the earth, barely breathing.

The cycle repeated for days until an outside doctor suggested they give me Toradol. One trip to the bathroom later and I was free to go home. Turns out I had a kidney infarction and a bowel blockage occur at the same time and the pain was from “inflammation”.

Yeah, I didn’t like that explanation either.

That’s the thing about being sick. There is no reason to it. It just happens. I mean, sure, people that don’t take care of themselves generally fare worse and are sick more often, but the emotional feeling is really just helplessness. It’s defeat. This little invisible thing has kicked my ass.

I would not wish COVID on my worst enemy. And I have a few. It’s a brutal process. It’s a ruthless virus.

It’s our shared reality.

I still can’t taste or smell anything. I finished an old box of cinnamon toast crunch with expired almond milk eggnog today just to confirm it.

So, for me, Christmas is all but canceled. About 46% of my family is now infected with COVID. I was just the first one to fall. We will recover, and we will be aided by anyone brave enough to love us. We’re lucky to have that. I’m lucky to have them. And you.

Thank you for your support. See you in 2023.

Happy holidays,

- Kyle.