The sun, my wife and I rise early trying to stick to our normal routines. Shower, breakfast, remote work – pretend like everything is normal. The coughing is sporadic but strong. The headache hasn’t lifted for days. Fatigue plays with my body like a distracted child wanting immediate attention after a video call.
Testing as a precaution is a weird limbo to occupy. Can I get angry at my body for confusing a cold with COVID-19? Not yet. Can I cry at the enormity of what might happen if it is COVID-19 as I’m quote-unquote vulnerable? Not yet. Do I confide in my colleagues and get sympathy rather than focussed work from them? Not yet.
The Prayer Bouquet hurriedly written by my sister on behalf of my cocooned Mum standing on the dresser is the only outward sign anything unusual is happening. It represents a grim reminder of clutching at straws to my atheist sensibilities.
I wait.
I hate waiting.