I haven’t written a blog in nearly 2 years, but this definitely feels like the right time. To start this blog, I do not have COVID-19. I am immensely grateful for this. But, earlier this week, I thought I might have it, and I was terrified.
About 3 weeks ago, I suddenly became very sick. I was supposed to shoot Glass Animals at Lincoln Hall (this was before everything shut down), and I didn’t have the energy to get to the venue. I had a terrible cough, a fever, and body aches I couldn’t get rid of. I had never had aches and chills like this. I took a scalding hot bath, and the minute my skin touched the air, it was dotted in goosebumps. My tailbone and seat bones hurt so much it was painful to sit down. I ended up laying down that evening and sleeping for 4 hours. When I woke up, I was drenched in sweat and beet red. I assumed I broke my fever.
After that night, I started to feel better. The aches went away, my fever didn’t come back, and I was able to resume my normal life. I still had a cough that lingered, but it was manageable. I shot some events, hung out with friends, and planned for what was going to be the busiest month of my freelance career. The following week, everything came crashing down. Before the emergency shutdowns and shelter-in-place, I lost all of my work. Every wedding, event, portrait session, and concert was canceled; my mailbox filled with emails over the course of 4 hours. This was Thursday, March 12.
At this point, a lot of people started panicking. I saw my friends losing work, and while I began to realize how serious this all was, it still felt like overkill. Deep down, I was angry. I was laid off from my job in November of 2019 (for the SECOND time, big ups to that crap company), but I used that as a reason to start shooting for myself full-time. I had just been a vendor at my first wedding expo, and people wanted to book me. ME! I felt amazing, like 2020 was going to be MY year. When I got all of those emails on March 12, I felt betrayed. This stupid virus couldn’t really be THAT bad.
Over the next 48 hours, thousands of giant corporations, companies, and school systems began closing. My husband was told to work from home “indefinitely”, something which he had never done as an educator. Flights were canceled, people were told to stay home from big events (although thousands of IDIOTS flooded the streets of Wrigleyville for bar crawls). I went to a small gathering at a friend’s house (there were no more than 10 of us), not realizing this was the last time I would be socializing with anyone for the foreseeable future. We had breakfast, played darts, and talked about how none of this quite felt real yet. It was nice. I came home that day thinking that everything would still go back to normal soon. It all felt a bit like a dream.
Over the next few days, I still tried to maintain normalcy. I went to the grocery store to stock up, feeling a little worried the aisles would be crowded and the shelves would be barren. To my surprise, nearly everything was stocked. I got the essentials plus extra dry goods and non-perishables, but I didn’t wear gloves or even consider covering my face. I went to my family’s for dinner on St. Patrick’s Day, making sure to take my shoes off at the door, wash my hands thoroughly, and avoid hugging or kissing my grandfather. I took some self portraits in the sun room and drove downtown to snap some shots of the empty streets. I was still bitter about losing my gigs, but less so. I picked up Starbucks with Jimmy and ate chocolate covered Madeleines. This was Thursday, March 19.
Over the weekend, I started having chest pains. My asthma was flaring back up, and my inhaler wasn’t helping. This is really unusual for me; my inhaler nearly always stops my wheezing, but this time, it wasn’t making a dent. I felt like I was walking around with a stack of books on my chest, and nothing I did made it any better. For the first time since all of this started, my anxiety started to get the best of me. No longer did I think this was overkill. No longer did I feel like people were worried over nothing. I slept about 4 hours a night and constantly woke up from nightmares.
By Monday (2 days ago), I felt like I could barely breathe. I kept telling myself that it was mostly anxiety; when I have panic attacks or experience really bad moments of anxiety, I do cough a lot. But the chest pain…that was foreign. I tried working out at home and had to stop after 10 minutes. I took a shower Monday night and had to get on my hands and knees in the hot water to breathe properly. I knew something was very wrong. That night, I sat in bed, playing Animal Crossing, trying not to cry. Jimmy coaxed it out of me, and I sobbed harder than I had in a very long time. Y’know, one of those long, ugly cries where you make noises that could rival a squad of screaming cats.
I looked at Jimmy and said “What if I have COVID?”
He said, “You probably don’t, but maybe go to the doctor tomorrow to be sure.”
I said, “What…what if I die?”
He laughed and said, “That would really fucking suck.” I laughed through my cat noises.
Yesterday, I went to the doctor, donned with a surgical mask and gloves from home (my family had leftover masks from when Grammy was in hospice and my mom gave us the few she wasn’t saving for my grandfather). Immediately upon entering my doctor’s office, I felt safe. I’ve been seeing my GP for years (I would recommend Dr. Gilleon to EVERYONE: she specializes in women/queer folx’ health), and she’s always treated me with care and kindness. The office was quiet. All the patients were already in rooms, and only Dr. Gilleon, her husband (who was doing all of the administrative work), a fellow med student, and her medical partner, whose name I can’t remember (which bothers me, because he’s the one who treated me). Dr. Gilleon had her two small dogs in her lap, both of whom were mildly happy to see me and got up on the counter for pets. I laughed and said it felt weird petting dogs with gloves on, but it still calmed me down.
I was taken back to an exam room after I said hi to the pups, and the doctor came in right away. He asked me how I was feeling and what my symptoms were. As I described my chest pain, painful (but productive) cough, and asthma (but lack of fever, aches, and dry cough), he seemed collected and not too worried. When he grabbed his stethoscope and asked me to take deep breaths, he stopped after one breath and said “Oh yeah. That’s bad.” But the way he said it didn’t scare me. I’m very used to having asthma, so if that’s all this was, I was going to be fine.
He insisted on giving me a breathing treatment, swabbing for Flu A and B, and a big old steroid shot (basically 5 days’ worth of oral steroids in one injection). While prepping all of this, he asked me what neighborhood I lived in, if I was still working, and what I was doing to stay sane. After giving me the shot, he told me that a lot of patients are experiencing massive spikes in anxiety, and that if I needed any of my meds refilled or anyone to talk to, he was there for me. I almost cried. I of course knew that this wasn’t just affecting me, but to be able to talk to someone in person and hear it, everything felt so much more concrete and manageable.
The breathing treatment was a fucking LIVE SAVER. I cannot stress this enough: if you are experiencing asthma or shortness of breath, call your damn doctor. Even if you’re quarantined and are sure you don’t have COVID, you can talk to your GP or an urgent care clinic and get a breathing treatment easily. As I listened to my podcast and took massive deep breaths in and out through the mask, I felt happier than I had in weeks. I was safe. I was able to breathe. The medication is essentially adrenaline, so I started shaking within minutes, but again, I’m used to it. It was comforting to feel this rush of energy that was opening my lungs.
The doctor came back in, said I sounded infinitely better, took my temp (no fever), and wrote me a preventative RX for pneumonia. While he didn’t think I had it, I was to get it filled and use it if I felt worse in the coming days. I went home, took a Xanax, and slept for 3 hours. When I woke up, the books were off my chest. I could truly breathe.
I slept like shit last night, maybe 2 hours tops. But that’s what happens when you pump your body full of adrenaline and steroids. I didn’t mind the insomnia at all. Whatever, I could breathe. Sleep would come when it needed to. I took 2 naps today and did an online yoga class with my friends Emily and Jackie.
I’m writing all of this out so I remember it. In many ways, is the most uncertain, scary time period we’ve ever lived through, and I want to be able to remember how this affected me.
I’m no longer going to the store at all. Jimmy is running in for us if we need anything.
I’m wearing a mask everywhere I go, unless it’s to sit outside and read a book.
I’m taking this shit SERIOUSLY.
It’s completely okay to be terrified right now, but it’s not okay to bottle it up. Talk to someone, whoever it may be. Call your doctor at anytime. And for fuck’s sake, stay inside if you can.
❤
(FKA Twigs at Pitchfork 2016)
scribomaniac 