What I hate about long COVID is the bouts of fatigue, brain fog, the feeling that I’m out of step with the universe. I get momentary bursts of energy that allow me to get some writing done but damn, when the fatigue kicks in, all I can do is sleep. That’s all I did yesterday, getting up only to pee, smoke, eat, and drink half a beer.
Vivid dreams—snuggling with college-age baristas, arguing with the robot driving my car—dumped me into a morning that had no internet. Great, first time in days that the fog feels lifted and I have to deal with my ISP. Once I got my internet back up, I laid back down again, hoping for more baristas. I was back up by noon and it was then that I felt like I could finally step up and be alive again.
It was my sixty-first birthday when I got hit with COVID and it was the first two weeks of my life, and next month, and next year. Thirteen months later, I got hit again, worse, there were several times during that episode where those around me said I needed to go to the hospital. After sweating and shivering, coughing until I puked, sleeping twenty hours straight, I emerged from nearly two weeks of that with barely enough energy to sit up at my desk and work. Every day was spent awaiting clocking out and going back to bed.
As I said, with some exceptions, it has been that way for almost three years. It’s almost impossible to get motivated for anything. Part of my morning was spent looking for places to camp that didn’t involve two hours of driving, until I considered that I used to drive three and four hours to get to trees and no desert.
Since COVID, everything feels like a monumental effort, as though gravity has doubled and I’ve passed the event horizon.