Isobel scrubbed out what was left of her third cigarette of the morning and drained the dregs of her second mug of coffee. Black of course. No sugar. Of course.
She’d been chain-smoking Marlboros and shotgunning coffee since she joined the Academy at 14. It was the only way to keep her profile long and lean.
Isobel was famous for the lines she could make of her body. She preferred modern dance in nothing but a leotard the exact shade of her skin, but when you are called to dance, you go where your talent takes you.
And so she was the prima for the New York Ballet – a position envied by many.
Today they had her costumed in swirls and twirls of scarlet silk and chiffon. Madame signaled that it was time to begin. She walked in her toe shoes, that distinctive walk that only ballet dancers with years of experience can duplicate, to the center of the backdrop. Simple black. The scarlet of her costume, the pale peach of her skin, with her dark hair — oh the photos would be extraordinary if the photographer had even a drop of skill. En pointe, she lengthened her neck, pulled her arms into position, and rotated. She heard the photographer gasp before she heard the camera shutter start its incessant chatter. She always strained for that sound. When her audience gasped, she knew her body was telling her true. She had arranged the lines perfectly. The veins and arteries of her neck reaching upward as did her arms and fingers – balanced perfectly on her toes and the wooden blocks inside her shoes.
Would Claude be in the audience tonight? She wondered as she pirouetted and her skirts billowed to the background rhythm of the shutter clicking. Claude was pursuing her with diligence and finesse. She had learned he was a podiatrist early on. She was dubious that she could allow herself to be at ease with him. Surely, such a doctor would want beautiful feet.
What most didn’t know was that professional ballerinas had the world’s most god-awful feet. Isobel was vain. She did not see her ugly feet as the vehicle for her talent. She saw them as grotesque appendages never to be exposed to a curious world. She never wore sandals and only went to the beach with water shoes. She could not fathom exposing her naked feet to a connoisseur.
Claude’s interest was likely to be rebuffed. Again.
It just wasn’t Saturday without Tom & Jerry, Felix the Cat, and Bullwinkle & Rocky, but my favorite cartoons were the old classics: Silly Symphonies and all the Looney Tunes. Oh, how I laughed. Oh, how I was entranced. Dancing teacups, sentient plants, Singing tubs of cold cream. No wonder we grew up to be the generation that put music videos into the mainstream.
My brother and I would assemble on the floor in the living room. Bowl of cereal in front of us far too close to the television. Mom would say, you’re too close to the television and we would scooch back. After two bowls of Sugar Pops with the Sugar Bear mascot, I’d be wired for sound. I did love that cereal which is odd because I wasn’t much of a cereal eater as I hated milk. I often ate my sugar pops without or as little as possible.
Funny, but I can’t remember the order of the cartoons though I remember that I was done by the time Johnny Quest came on. Sometimes I’d watch it, other times not. My brother was done before then and likely in the backyard with his Tonka trucks.
At about the age of 10 or 11, I added American Bandstand to Saturday cartoons. I think it came on at noon. In later years, soul train followed.
When I got older yet, I discovered that often there were old movies on in the afternoon. I Sugar Popped my way through musicals, film noir, Jerry Lewis, and Tammy movies.
Saturdays were blissful. The only real day I didn’t have much to do. Sure, we were expected to clean our room and do other housecleaning duties, but none of that “no playing until chores were done.” As long as we did get it done, we were pretty free to choose when. No school, no church, hours and hours to just be. Laughing at cartoons, reading Beverly Clearly, eating when hungry, and straightening my bedroom when I was good and ready to.
As an adult, I watched cartoons with my son. I wonder if he realizes how cheated he was. Everything has a moral, a lesson, a sponsor. No silliness just for the sake of being silly. No whimsy. No dancing tubs of cold cream.
I am resolved to buy the old Warner Brothers stuff on DVD so that my grandson will have those hours of childhood. Bugs Bunny, Elmer Fudd, The Roadrunner. What a golden period for cartoons.
Pancakes or waffles, you ask? Well. I’m actually a French toast kind of chick if I’m going to be that carb indulgent. Normally, my breakfast of choice is potatoes, sausage, two eggs over easy, wheat toast well done and well buttered. That’s my mainstay.
But there are mornings—or evenings more likely—when a warm breakfast bread calls to me.
I once had a vintage waffle iron I bought at the Goodwill for $2. I was excited to have it. I brought it home, plugged it in to see if it worked and told my five-year-old son not to touch it. What did he do? He touched it. Nearly 2nd degree burns on his little hand. I learned real fast why it was at the Goodwill. It was not safe. The whole thing got hot. Scorching hot. 2nd degree burns hot. I did the world a favor and threw that sucker away.
I did eventually get a new waffle iron. Hated it too. By the time you got the waffles from the iron to the table, the butter wouldn’t melt, they were so cold. And that is mostly my experience with waffles. You can’t keep them hot. And there is no point in a waffle or a pancake or even French Toast if it’s not hot and swimming in melted butter. Lots of butter. Real butter. Good real butter. Like a nice Danish butter from the Gucci Kroger cheese case.
So, we went back to pancakes. I like pancakes. Tons of butter and sometimes, certainly not always, a bit of maple syrup. Real maple syrup. Not that fake stuff. Ooooo ick. No. Never that. Never. But I seldom order them and even less often make them at home. Just not big on the pancakes.
But the French toast, you might ask? Well. There’s a problem with French toast. I like it one of two ways. Made with that dirt cheap white bread you can buy at any Dollar General or French toast, Pan Perdue, made with my homemade bread. The problem is I seldom have either when a French toast urge comes upon me. So, it’s a once or twice a year thing unless I’m out somewhere, but they rather bug me the French toast purveyors do. By the time they’re done with it, it’s a dessert. Powdered sugar, fruit compote, whipped cream. Now that can be good, as a dessert, but it’s not French toast.
Here’s the recipe for French Toast:
Connie’s day old homemade white bread sliced about an inch and half thick.
6 eggs, beaten
Heavy cream
A dash of nutmeg
Salt and pepper
Good butter
Mix all the ingredients except the butter until you have a creamy thick liquid. Soak the bread in it and pop the slices into a hot pan with melted butter. Fry on both sides until puffed and golden brown.
Serve with copious amounts of butter and maple syrup if you must. Savory sausage patties for contrast on the side. Perfection.
But waffles or pancakes, you ask? I hang out at the Waffle House. In fact, I have a book started: Meet Me at the Waffle House. I have a couple of chapters written. One morning, I wanted something different and noticed they offered waffles with pecans. I have never turned down a pecan in my life. Waffle House waffles with extra pecans and a load of whipped butter are the bomb. Love ‘em. I think it’s the pecans, but they hold the heat. I can actually get a hot waffle. Oooo doggies. Good eating.
Yesterday, I took my Consort to the Waffle House. He decided on a waffle along with eggs etc. I told him to get it with extra pecans. He’ll tell you. Perfection.
So, the answer? Waffles or pancakes? Waffle House waffles (hot) with extra pecans at 5 a.m. with your hot lover and hot coffee. Oooo doggies.
Hands on the banisters…tight, gripping…trying to catch my breath…heart racing. Doubled over.
I try to breathe normally.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
My breath comes back before my heart quiets. I finish the climb. Out of breath at the top. Again.
I stumble and stagger to the bed.
Laying my body down, the room spins. Ripples of nausea. My dachshund jumps on the bed and licks my face. She is worried. I am worried, too. She burrows under the blanket and curls up against my back.
I am still heaving. Trying to breathe.
Finally, it all settles down–my breathing, the nausea, the spinning. I curl and pull my knees into full fetal position. The dachshund nestles even closer, her nose cold against my back. I can sleep. And I do. Thirteen hours a day. Sometimes more. Rarely less.
They call it Long Haulers. They call it Long COVID. They call it Post COVID Conditions.
What I call it cannot be repeated in polite company.
I am so very weary of being tired, out of breath, aching, confused and scared.
Three years, six months, and ten days now since that phone call. Too anxious to wait any longer, I called the Health Department as soon as they opened. I have been sick for three days. They had tested me two days earlier.
I gave the woman on the other end of the phone my name. My date of birth. Last four of my social. She seemed surprised. “You’re positive.”
“What do I do now?” I could hear her shrug her shoulders.
“Call your doctor?”
I do. I’ve had the same doctor, Hyla, since 1998. She is very responsive. I can’t get through to her. I am surprised. I am desperate. I have the CORONA-19 Virus. I am trying not to panic.
In late 2020, the news outlets report health care professionals are overwhelmed. I am overwhelmed too and newly diagnosed.
I sleep. I call my doctor’s office. I sleep some more. I have a gruesome headache. The headache has been with me for so long, I name it Frank. It is already powerful – naming won’t hurt. I call some more.
I make a tele-health appointment to try and get Hyla’s attention. Finally, she calls. I ask her how long? I asked her if I will be okay? I askk her a lot of questions. She says, “We don’t know.” She says, “The recommended protocol is Vitamin C, Vitamin D, B12, zinc, magnesium, potassium. Arthritis Strength Tylenol. ICU patients show improvement with Pepcid, of all things.” She said, “Elderberry is showing some promise.”
She tells me what to look for and how I will know if I need to go to the Emergency Room.
“Don’t go if you don’t have to. Please.”
Three years, six months, and ten days now since the diagnosis. Before the vaccine. Before the antivirals. “My doctor said, “We don’t know.” Vitamin D. Vitamin C. The Bs. I take them all.
Three weeks after the diagnosis, I am somewhat better. I work from home, but I nap two or three times a day and sleep all night. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I think depression. But the headache?
I take the vitamins. The elderberry. The Pepcid. I sleep. I still have Frank-the-Headache for weeks and then months.
My doctor says, “We don’t know.”
After 9 months, finally, I am better. I shout ‘Hallelujah!’ on my social media.
This is premature.
A relapse.
“We don’t know,” Hyla says when I ask why it came back and how long it will last.
I am called back to the office in the town where I am employed after working at home for months. I discover I cannot walk. I cannot get from my car to my office. The drive has worn me out. Fixing breakfast, dressing for work and thirty minutes on the road might as well have been six months on the wagon trail. Casting off furniture like ballast. My old life gone like pianos sinking in the mud en route to Oregon.
I begin working at home again.
I am exhausted easily and often. I have a built-in seat in my shower. I could not bathe otherwise. I cannot stand but a few minutes or walk a few steps. My thoughts are cloudy.
I insist my doctor see me in person. Long COVID, I suggest. I have been reading the research buzz. I read abstracts online, mostly from the UK as they are releasing studies before the US.
“We don’t know,” Hyla says.
She says, “Good luck.”
I am not depressed, but I am. I develop anxiety.
Hyla says, “That, too.”
Many of us long-haulers do.
I break out in rashes.
“Yes, people report that.”
My old life is gone.
I enroll in a study out of Johns Hopkins. The questions go on and on and list all the possible permutations of Long COVID. I have kept my taste and smell but have no executive function. No cough to speak of, but the headache…Lord, the headache. Mercy, please. And then, body aches. Stiff joints. Hyla says I seem to be mimicking chronic fatigue syndrome.
“Good luck.”
I go back to work at the office. I feed the meter all day long via a phone app so I can park by the front door.
Three years, six months, and ten days now and they still don’t know much. I quit taking the zinc because I’m told to, but I can’t remember why. My short-term memory is gone. Some days my cognitive function is like swimming in a vat of molasses.
I am determined to reclaim my life. I join a yoga class. I can’t do it. Not even savasana–the one where you sprawl on the floor like a dead corpse.
I drop out.
I have failed beginning yoga. I used to take advanced classes.
Periodically, the symptoms abate. The headache is gone. I announce my recovery. I rejoice. Truly. Rejoice. I have hope again.
I feel almost good when I wake, though I tire easily. I tell myself I am just out of shape. Six to eight weeks of relative calm.
And then I relapse.
Another recovery. Another Hallelujah! Another relapse.
“We still don’t know.”
I am at the beach. My friends drive me to doors. Carry my things. It takes me half an hour to traverse the block to the chair they have set up for me as close to the boardwalk as possible. I discover I cannot stand in the wet sand. Can’t keep my balance when it shifts with the surf. I want to cry, but I laugh instead.
Long COVID is not going to beat me.
Three years, six months, and ten days. The WHO reports that 6,938,353 people have died from the coronavirus COVID-19 outbreak as of May 31, 2023.
For the 760 million people with COVID who didn’t die, 20% or more had or have Long COVID. Some for weeks, some for months.
Me? Three years, six months, and ten days.
My case is considered mild. I am one of the lucky ones. I did not die. I have not been declared disabled. I have not had to quit my job. I do not have to use a wheelchair or an oxygen tank. I have been fortunate. The initial illness itself, too, was mild. No hospital.
The doctor is as weary of saying “we don’t know” as I am of hearing it.
Elderberry. Vitamin C. Vitamin D. B12.
Lucky.
They begin to know some things. I am given Lorazepam for the anxiety and Modafinil for executive function. I have a rescue inhaler. They help but are not enough. I am not well, though I no longer have the headache. I begin to consider my future.
What if this is as good as it gets? This. Right now. Living this way.
It’s time to go to bed. I must climb the stairs to get there. It will take all the strength I have left. I will lie there for a few minutes, gasping, scared before I can breathe. Scared after. Still and all, I will settle into sleep to do it all again tomorrow.
The dachshund burrows next to me.
Three years, six months, and eleven days.
A long long-haul.
NOTE: This was written some time ago. The doctors have me on a drug cocktail that works for me. I feel infinitely better.
W. Va. Fur and Root 