Early March outside of New York City felt like watching a tsunami heading towards you, and knowing there was nowhere to run. The virus was coming, if not already here and circulating silently in our communities. The Government was lying to us, saying that masks couldn’t protect us, that hand-washing was the best way to keep ourselves safe. So I took a crowded train to Manhattan for a job interview, face uncovered and with a bottle of hand sanitizer I hoped would keep me safe.
Two weeks later, I was coughing. On March 26, I started to run a low-grade fever, and by the next day there was little doubt what virus has infected me. Caught quarantined in the middle of a hotspot (thanks to the 200 wealthy guests who attended a super spread event disguised as a birthday party) I had to fight just to get tested. The negative test result was reported to the state as a suspected false positive and I was officially a “person under investigation” No contact tracing, no calls from the health department; my sick partner and I locked ourselves in his attic bedroom and hoped for the best. I started to become convinced that I could feel the virus moving down deeper into my lungs, a sensation I was later told was the lobes in my lungs hardening as the pneumonia spread.
Every day I dreaded the sunset because at night my symptoms were at their worst. My vision was quickly altered and my grip on reality was slipping. I stared out of a window for three weeks, trying to maintain my connection with the outside world. I watched the trees from my window start growing tiny green buds as the spring progressed. The more the Earth came back to life, the sicker I became. As The New York Times declared it to be “peak death week” in my region, I was convinced the Grim Reaper hid in the shadows in the corners of my room, watching me sleep. At the age of 25 I was wondering if I would live to see summer. There were days when I couldn’t take a full breath and my tachycardia was so loud my pulse rang out in my ears like gunshots, and the pain became too great to lift my head. As Doctors refused to see me, the fear sunk in that I might become just another statistic in a war against an invisible virus.
Finally, I agreed to a second experimental drug, a course of steroids that saved my life. But after the course of steroids finished, my progress seemed to backslide. No longer dying but not quite alive, I was a prehistoric insect caught in amber, watching the world turn from my state of suspended animation. My recovery was starts and stops, one step forward and two steps back as Doctor after Doctor told me they couldn’t help me. The only time I left bed was to sit in Doctor’s offices, video chat with specialists and have blood draw after blood draw, test after test.
Full recovery is no longer a part of my vocabulary. My progress has been slow, a simple flu vaccine put me in the hospital, the Doctors convinced I was reinfected. My brain and my vision are still largely affected, I see sparks and bright flashes of light in my peripheral vision. I see phantom movement in the corners of my eye, or black dots cover my vision. My eyes are growing to reflect the photographs I have been taking, a self-fulfilling prophecy. Time moves differently, days turn into blurs and only the changing of the seasons registers with my brain. Outside of my bedroom window I’ve seen the world change, a ghostly witness watching a revolution in the streets, a new world order. I haunt my house waiting for a miracle drug that I’m not sure is ever coming, praying that the long haul won’t be so long. I’ve been wondering what the world might look like when I finally rise out of my bed, lace up my shoes and walk out the door free. What kind of society will rise from these ashes?