Семья из Дюлута спустя шесть лет безболезненного переживания пандемии заразилась коронавирусом

I don’t know about you, but when I am sick, my hair hurts. Some people have excruciatingly tender skin, which accounts for the wild-eyed look they get when someone approaches within touching or patting distance. “There, there, I hope you’re feeling better,” they say. “What can I do for you?” they ask, with all the well-meaning intentions in the world, while all the time your inner self is shouting “Ow, ow, ow!” ADVERTISEMENT “Where do you think you got it? What are your symptoms? How long have you had it? Can I run to the grocery store for you?” All questions denoting the greatest concern on the part of the “asker.” What they don’t seem to realize is that their questions cause you, the sick person, to have to think. And when you are sick, or have failing parts, having to think causes you great pain. At a time when you’d rather crawl under the covers to the foot of your bed and stay there till spring, you have to rev up the old brain cells and come up with a coherent answer — hard enough at the best of times, but when you are running a low-grade temperature and having one of those strange aura headaches that make brain synapses few and far between, it can be a challenge. Do you need something from the pharmacy? Or the grocery? Did you just eat the last can of chicken noodle soup? Do you really, really need that chocolate éclair you’ve been hallucinating about, laying in your rumpled bed, staring at the ceiling? Or can you (cue the violins and wrist to forehead in dramatic gesture) soldier on without it? In our house, as children were growing up, we had “sick rituals” which had nothing to do with running around outside the house three times at midnight and burying a dishrag under the back porch. They had to do with Campbell’s Cream of Tomato soup, Ritz crackers, Coca Cola and “the sick tray” upon which they were delivered to the poor moaner and groaner. This legendary sick tray was only about 12 inches by eight inches and was purchased in Bitburg, West Germany, when our kids were very, very little and we were in the Air Force. It was made of wood and bamboo, with little hoop handles on each end. The base of the tray, itself was covered with some yellow and white stripe plastic shelf-covering, meant I’m sure, to be cheerful. When the sick tray came out, you knew the plague sashings and signs would be next and this was serious stuff. This wasn’t “I don’t want to go to school today because there’s a test and I forgot to study” sort of thing. This is right up there with “Don’t touch me, my hair hurts.” ADVERTISEMENT The sick tray is now part of its second generational family — our daughters and three grandsons — and is about to move on to its third, the “greats.” Long live the sick tray! This “Claudia’s column,” which you are reading as we speak, had its beginnings in a New Year’s letter to friends and fam, in which I optimistically described the ingenious ways we, as creative human beings, were dealing with the strictures of the COVID quarantine. We, my husband and I had not had the virus and I was just making a “humorous observation.” It was suggested, by a good friend of the literary bent, that I submit it to the Duluth News Tribune. I balked, at first, having written it for people closest to me that were familiar with my (ahem) unusual sense of humor. Remember having neighborhood gatherings in your driveway, while everyone else remained in their own driveway, enjoying their beverage of choice? Washing our hands a bazillion times a day? And we never touched our noses? I never exactly knew why, did you? But we fell into line and we survived. We got our shots, got our boosters, wore our masks and, amazingly enough, we never got it. Our negative titer said so. ADVERTISEMENT So, here we are, six years later, plugging along, getting our boosters, wearing our masks, avoiding large groups of people, aaaaand (suspenseful music) We Have It. We are so sick, coughing and spewing, and it’s been going on for a month! Poor, pitiful us. Yes, friends and fam, we have COVID. I don’t know about you, but my hair hurts.