Today, October 25th, marks the one year anniversary of my COVID case. My symptoms had started early, by at least 4 days, but I had the sense not to show up when I started showing a possible case. There were teachers in that district, the one where I previously worked, that showed up sick. There was no way I could do that to people I cared about. I didn't honestly think I had the virus.
But on that day I received a call from the health department, and I remember I was walking around the house. I wasn't quite exhausted yet; tired, headache, sore throat, stomachache, and other symptoms, but not the knockout tired that I experienced for months afterwards. Just as soon as the woman told me I sat down on the bed and breathed.
I was sick, and I didn't know what would happen.
There's a part of me that wishes I could go back to that person and tell her to take the time she needs. I wish I hadn't returned to work when I was still so sick, wish I hadn't let that school district push me so hard. I wish I'd gone to the doctor a little sooner, though we were in the middle of a spike, and they were quite full. So many wishes.
Here I am a full year later. I still can't taste or smell the same; it feels like I'm eating food and someone is describing to me. I forget things sometimes. I can't balance well, even after months of working out and training with that. My doctor checked my lungs last month and noted a diminished lung capacity. She was concerned, but gave me good recommendations.
Luckily, my entire family is vaccinated, and we're safe. We did not suffer the loss of close family, and for that I'm grateful. I could have been so much worse too, and I'm glad I wasn't hospitalized.
I hope sacrificing my health was worth it. I don't think it was.