Actually, I wasn’t all that hidden when sitting there, but most people didn’t look up to peer for children amongst the branches.
I clocked a lot of hours in that tree.
Williams was a dead-end street so there wasn’t much to see other than the occasions when the neighbor’s teenager would climb onto their roof and play his trumpet. Weird kid. Bad trumpet player, but I suppose he should get credit for practicing.
I’m sure that I dragged a book up there with me now and again, but I don’t remember reading in the tree. Of course, I read everywhere. I read like most people breathe – everywhere all the time.
I was older—12, 13, 14 – on the cusp – living my life, but also waiting for it to begin.
I do remember one vivid day at 14 when I waited for my boyfriend while sitting in the tree and there he came, bepopping down the middle of Williams, carrying the largest heart-shaped box of candy I’d ever seen. Whitman’s. It was Valentine’s Day – a special occasion. I usually did my tree-sitting in the summer.
I liked being in the tree. I felt hidden and the configuration of the branches made climbing easy. The trunk and major limb were in such a position as to make reclining in the tree very comfortable for my lithe teenage self.
One summer I took to making caftans out of old sheets. I’d waft around in yards of white percale dragging behind me and eventually climb the tree –no mean feat in an oversized sheet and sit there pondering the universe. Feeling spiritual and Egyptian in my badly sewn caftan.
Kenny-the-roof-trumpeter had nothing on me in the weirdness department.
I do remember dragging bags of Doritos into the tree with me. I carried the bag in my clenched teeth reserving both hands to scramble up the tree. Doritos were the new snack and took the country by storm. There were two flavors – plain and taco. I loved the taco ones and considered the bag a single serving. I was always hungry in those days. A bottomless pit of hunger and volatile hormones.
I’d wipe my orange-stained fingers on my caftan when done.
So, there I was, a long gangly teenager in a bedsheet streaked with orange stains perched in a tree going through puberty one long summer day at a time.
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.
Will I ever experience gentle west winds again or will they fill me with fear and remembrance from here on out.
Trauma creates deep wounds that never quite heal despite all the scar tissue. Ready to open up and bleed at the slightest provocation.
The windchimes, the ones of wood and copper handmade and tuned to a melodious phrase (I forget which key) by a company named Woodstock may be gone. Or perhaps they’re in the debris left behind.
I used to love listening to them when the wind rustled on a summer evening. The setting sun glinting on the copper. They sounded like my heartstrings thrumming in contentment. During storms, they played a symphony of strong emotions. I wonder what they sounded like when the tree sheared off.
Did the tree scream?
Research now tells us that trees communicate with one another, have friends, and have a mechanism to help a struggling friend who is sick or malnourished or dying of thirst. Is my forest in mourning? Are they pumping nutrients to the stump? Are they singing a dirge when the west wind blows?
Much of the trunk of the tree still lays in my yard. I need someone to cut two four-inch or so slabs. I want a remembrance of that tree for me. One for my son. Charcuterie boards? Maybe. Something. I have a friend who is a serious woodworker. Perhaps she will have an idea.
But I want that wood sheltered in my home. The one miraculously still standing. My heart home.
I’m in shock still, but able to recognize my good fortune. My house should be collapsed. It wasn’t built to sustain such a hit. The tree was old. I’m guessing the diameter was 36 inches or more. I hugged it a time or two.
Years ago, now, perhaps 15 or more, I planted a variety of climbing hydrangea. It grows wild in the forests of Japan. It needs shade and the north side of an oak tree to thrive. It had both. Slow growing, it had just started to take off – flowering its tiny white flowers in June. I hope I can salvage it – move it to another oak tree.
My garden looks like a war zone. The same wind that sheared my tree threw my lawn furniture, fountain, and garden tools around. I’ve no doubt lost a lot of work.
But my house still stands.
Hallelujah.
Yes, Hallelujah in the vein of Leonard Cohen. Perhaps I’ll write my own verse to that masterpiece.
I offer up my own verybroken hallelujah. Grateful. So grateful.
The other ones would make fun if they could see me. My top rim is crimped and stained with lipstick. The bottom is dented and misshapen from trips through the Keurig which is just a tad too small.
I was intended to be a single use with retirement then imminent. This chick has poured at least ten cups of coffee into me. I feel so used. And dirty.
But yet.
I should be in a landfill somewhere making conversation with pods, coffee filters, and wadded-up paper towels – all of my single-use kindred – but here I am with some sort of demented environmentalist who assuages her guilt at using me, by using and using and using me. She’s a demon.
She says she likes the way I fit into her hand. Hell’s bells. I’m just a 20 oz foam coffee cup. Made for take-out and advertising – Waffle House in cheerful black letters on yellow squares. The slogan is “America’s Place to Work” – when did I become a help wanted ad? I’m not suited for such. Who digs through the trash looking for tips on places to work? Is that the sort of person they want?
I hope not. I liked Theresa and Tony. I watched them from my place in the tower of cups next to the Bunn coffee machine. They were fun. Easy banter back and forth. Theresa giggled a lot. Tony looked at her at every opportunity. I wondered if they were having a thing. I knew my time was getting closer as my vantage point got closer and closer to being at the top of the tower of cups.
And then I was next. I could feel the breeze from the air vent on my nether region.
I heard her say, “Oh, and a large coffee to go, please.” With that I was pried off of my neighbor and filled with the steaming hot substance that keeps them going. A lid smartly slapped on. She carried me to the car and then she carried me into her home.
I was sipped until emptied and expected to find myself in a waste can, but no. Next thing I know, I’m being mashed into a too short Keurig and am filled with more coffee. It hurts my rim when she does that. Not to mention my bottom. She may be saving me from the landfill, but must she torture me in the process?
From my point of view, the landfill is not so bad once you get there. The journey through waste receptacles, garbage trucks and that frightening dump from high in the sky is traumatic, but no more traumatic than your average human death.
Time in the landfill, the recycled ones say, is sort of like retirement. You just sit around shooting the shit and playing silly games. Not so bad.
Not so bad here, either. I’ve got a new group of friends here on her desk. The stapler, I’ve never met one you know. As long as he keeps his sharp points to himself, we’ll be friends. The tape. The pen. I understand that at some coffee shops the waitress writes names on the cups. I think I would like to have a name and not just be part of a lot number. The pen and I are brainstorming on how to make that so.
She often names some of her belongings. I daydream that I’m special enough for a name, but refills go by and nothing. I am trying to be content with my lot in life wondering how many more times she will use me. She’s an addict. I wonder who she will replace me with. Will they have a name. Mortimer, maybe? I could be a Mortimer.
W. Va. Fur and Root 