During the first week of July, I started experiencing severe fatigue, a sharp uptick in headaches, and a feeling of significant discombobulation (i.e. brain fog). To top that off, my seasonal allergies were having a veritable hay day.

A logical person would add my symptoms to a worldwide pandemic to the road trip I took in June and conclude that I had probably contracted COVID-19.

Logic isn’t necessarily my strong suit. Road tripping, for all its awesomeness, has exacted a requisite toll on me ever since I suffered a brain injury in an accident seven years ago. I always pay a physical price and need a week or two to “recover.” This price generally involves my brain not functioning well, having severe headaches, and needing lots and lots of sleep.

So I figured I was just paying my road-tripping price, albeit for much longer than usual. Brain injury recovery is anything but predictable, so not much surprises me anymore.

But by the end of that week, when I realized my food was tasting like bland oatmeal and I couldn’t smell the rolls baking in the oven, my COVID-19 red flag finally raised (I can be remarkably slow on the uptake). So, I scheduled a test for Monday, July 6.

The doctor, standing in the parking lot at my car door listening to my symptoms, said, “I’m highly suspicious (that you have COVID-19). So far, everyone who’s tested positive (from this office) has reported a loss of taste and smell.”

Then, in an effort to figure out the origin of my particular case (which I was still really, really hoping was negative), the doctor and I discussed details. It turns out that my road trip was too far in my rear view mirror to be a likely source. As far as we were aware, no one in my family had been exposed to the virus or was exhibiting symptoms. And my habits of mask wearing and hand washing — although highly recommended and commendable — can never be 100% virus proof.

The doctor’s message was clear: a pandemic, by its very nature, doesn’t always allow for us to know where we pick up the virus. With a theatrical sweep of his hand, the doctor’s parting words to me were, “Welcome to the pandemic!”

Once my 10-plus-three days were over, I was still having a difficult time determining whether I was symptom-free. I had regained much (but not all) of my kaput energy, my headaches had decreased, and my brain function seemed to be improving (less confusion and memory loss, for example).

I had been told not to expect my taste and smell to return after two weeks (they hadn’t), and I assumed the ongoing congestion was related to that. But how could I determine whether my ongoing symptoms were from my brain injury, allergies, or COVID-19?

I had read that a second test that comes back negative was a sure-fire way to determine lack of contagion. So, to ease my mind and the minds of those around me, I decided to be tested again on Monday, July 20 (a full three weeks since the onset of my symptoms and 14 days since my first test).

While waiting for the results of the second test, I ended my self-isolation and moved out into the big world of my entire house. In a word, heavenly.

When I woke up on Saturday, July 25 and saw my second positive result on my phone, I felt like throwing up.

My husband saw my phone, paused, and said, “I was afraid of this.”

Late the night before, he came across a statement from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (posted July 22)
announcing new findings and updating its testing recommendations. In summary, the statement says that because COVID-19 is now known to be detectable long after persons are no longer contagious, second tests are no longer recommended.

Later that day over the phone, the doctor confirmed this information while at the same time reminding me that I’m not necessarily exempt from getting reinfected or possibly infecting someone else. The doctor advised me to please wear a mask in public if I chose to go anywhere.

Being told by multiple sources that I’m definitely, almost for sure not contagious while also knowing that the virus is definitely still kicking around inside of me can best be described as living in a COVID-19 twilight zone.

Later that night, we celebrated my son’s 23rd birthday by ordering from the Cheesecake Factory. I was so excited to eat that cheesecake, momentarily forgetting that I wouldn’t actually be able to taste what is my favorite flavor of all time. That tasteless bite of cheesecake ended up being my proverbial straw.

I sobbed.

Those pre-Covid days can’t come back soon enough for me. Days when I can hug all my friends and family — with impunity. Days when I can invite dozens of people to my house just because. Days when I can smell rolls baking in the oven and taste my favorite all-time foods. Days when I can walk into a store and not feel anxious, wondering if one ill-timed touch might transfer the virus to someone I love. Days when I can stop worrying about the tragic possibility of an immunocompromised loved one testing positive for COVID-19.