The Reality of Catching COVID

I thought I had dodged it. I was so far removed from the realities of COVID in our country utopia that I could very nearly pretend that it wasn’t a part of my world. When in reality, I think it was more like I was an oblivious participant in a muted down version of the Hunger Games.

Until it took me down. It went for me first, bypassing the other members of the family. Like the vaccine itself had done, it ran me clean through. At first, I thought I was suffering from extreme PMS, because COVID took over my body the same day that my cycle started, starting with incredible aches and pains. Then the fever. If you had touched my skin I might have screamed. I was weak, exhausted. I couldn’t hug my babies, who hung about my doorway, their eyes like saucers, staring at me hopelessly. My husband arrived in the nick of time to take care of us all, remaining COVID-free—somehow.

It didn’t end there—even after the five days of soaking my sheets through and barely being able to swallow, it followed me around for weeks, a dizzy-vertigo haze slowing my every reaction, my every move. I felt like the world was shaking me violently, forcing me to step mindfully, one foot in front of the other. My husband and I had planned a trip to Tofino months ago, which I took alone—my children tested positive before I left (they suffered a 24-hour fever and sore throat and were then right as rain)—and DH graciously forced me onto the plane for my very first solo trip. I spent a week walking the beach, slowly, slowly, as the ocean poured her healing into me. An avid runner, I found I couldn’t muster the energy to tie my sneakers. So I was forced to walk, one boot in front of the other, listening to the sounds of the sand sucking my boots in, my eyes carefully searching for sea shells and sand dollars. I could feel myself growing, although I don’t think I realized it until now.

Now, I run this farm alone. You might have gleaned that I am blessed with three young children and a husband who flies home every two to three weeks, depending on his work schedule. While he loves me very much and takes over the chores when he arrives to give me a break, he is by no means a farmer. Not even a hobby farmer. Although he can certainly wear the heck out of a rubber boot, let me tell you. I really need to be okay for everything to run smoothly—because the animals don’t care if I’m sick. More importantly, the children need mummy to keep the boat afloat. Before catching COVID, I was going flat out. I had thoughts of turning the farm into a distribution center, of planning a monthly summer flea market, of expanding our pigs to include Icelandic sheep. I wanted to grow my business, separate from writing and editing.

But COVID. It forced me to take a long hard look at why I wanted to do these things. My ambitions were pulling me in so many directions instead of allowing me to stop and focus on one thing at a time—to look at and appreciate my children more, to stop overflowing my bucket. To walk, instead of run—literally. I had so many balls in the air—a heavy weight on my chest most days. And so the balls dropped.

Instead of picking them up, I kicked a few to the side. I focused on the ones that were most important to me–and left the ones behind that I could afford to lose. I let go of the feeling that I had to keep fighting for my place–the result of an earlier trauma–and settled into where I was, setting goals that were manageable–things that would truly bring me happiness as opposed to trying to prove that I could do everything.

It’s been a tricky road so far, staying the course. Fortunately, I took the scenic route.