No. 17: Trash chair thoughts

Seven days into quarantine and a few days to go until the recommended 10. Then I may re-enter society. With a mask on. Forever, probably. I’m wondering when it ever came off. Still no clear source of infection. No obvious bad guy. Nothing is ever as simple as we need to think it is.

I’ve had the whole gamut of symptoms: body aches, fever, congestion, and a persistent cough. Last night I went to bed at 9:30 p.m. I slept most of the day today, in fitful spurts on the couch with Gilmore Girls playing in a constant loop in the background. Every time I was jolted awake by the sound of my upstairs neighbor bowling—or whatever it is that she does all fucking day long—I would flip for proper nose drainage.

Being sick is exhausting.

But nothing is worse than the loss of my taste and smell. The CDC has isolated me from the outside world; covid is further isolating me from the inside out. I can’t smell my neighborhood or the humidity when I quickly grab my paper in the morning. Smells and tastes are markers of time. But first, coffee. Nights just smell different. I can feel the breeze but it’s missing something. Everything is off.

I can’t smell my own shit.

Overnight I lost two of the most important evolutionary protections I have against death. Does this taste spoiled? Do you smell smoke? The other day I thought I might enjoy a grilled cheese (sadly, I was wrong). I got distracted while it was cooking and my kitchen filled with smoke. The stale bread was charred black and the american cheese slices are supposedly organic (lol what does this matter). I may as well have been eating oily silly putty. But even that would have an interesting taste. Normally. We all know the concept of “going back to normal” is a fantasy.

That doesn’t stop us from trying.

All signs point to my taste and smell both coming back at some point. Might be another 7 days. Might come back tomorrow. Or never, at least not yet. There are a million ways to have covid. No two people have exactly the same experience. Oh, but that doesn’t stop us from wishing others could truly understand how we feel. I’d have to completely relearn how to eat. Everything I’d experienced would no longer matter. Starting from zero. Blank slates can be sexy. Until it’s you.

I don’t want to go back. That sounds hard, and I’m tired.

I thought I would be one of those covid all-stars who spent her time in quarantine getting her life together. I’d scrub my moldy shower curtain, unsubscribe from all that email spam, and scrape that fucking contact lens off my toilet seat. I’d organize my photo hard drives and back up my phone. I’d throw out my spoiled food and catch up on my correspondence—can I send letters from quarantine without feeling like a biological unabomber?

I took sick days today and yesterday, and feel bad saddling my (very understanding) co-workers with my duties. 7 Washington Posts and a 20-lb Sunday Times sit by my front door, unread. What’s the point of reading about the world when you can’t be a part of the world? As if you need one more reason to wonder if you matter. The world is perfectly fine without us. Sometimes it even feels like it’s worse. But not always. That’s the important part. Nothing lasts forever. Everything ends. Another fence is going up around the Capitol. But they say it will come down “if nothing happens.”

Something always happens.

Tonight, the best I could manage was to do my dishes. I washed a stack of souvenir novelty plates. From Lake George, Newport, Pennsylvania, North Carolina, and Massachusetts, I found them all at the same thrift store in Maryland recently. I thought it made sense to slowly replace my uninspired IKEA dishes with something more meaningful; I do not need plates—or another burgeoning trash collection—but I couldn’t resist. Once cherished trip souvenirs (several came with rusty plate hangers still attached), I love thinking about how they made their way to my DC kitchen. I peeled off the price tag stuck on the back of the Lake George “Queen of the American Lakes” plate, revealing a gold leaf stamp: Decorative plate only - not to be used for food service.

Eating food I can’t taste on plates unsafe for food. Decorative use only. No real purpose. Covid has made me feel both dramatic and selfish. How do you balance feeling as if you’re unworthy of attention with the very human need for compassion?

I’ve never been so popular and so lonely.

My connection with the outside world has always felt tenuous, at best. I’ve become a phone talker again in recent months, but I’ve never spoken with or texted my parents and friends as much as I have in the past 7 days. Yesterday I spent most of the day at the NIH, being poked, prodded, and drained in the name of science. I gave them 18 vials of my blood and a few minutes of my dignity while they swabbed my nose and butthole; the samples will be used in covid research, and potentially additional studies in the future (one of the possible side effects listed was “embarrassment,” but I’ve done much worse for much less). Unlike Henrietta Lacks, I was asked to consent.

It was a proper adventure: I’m fascinated by historic medical institutions and easily thrilled. I was pumped full of free government antibodies (thanks obama!!!) and I expect to feel 20 years younger in no time. I’ll also receive compensation for my time—never turn down money or top-notch healthcare in America. I’m ready for my victory lap around Walter Reed. Fuck, I also need to do laundry. My superman t-shirt is dirty.