Who Gets Covid Anymore? Me!

By Carol Segal / New York City

Covid as the monstrous, global pandemic it originally was, is behind us, but the virus in its ever-mutating form is still very much a presence today.  I know, because I’ve got it right now.  

Thankfully, my symptoms are so mild that I am able to type these words while dealing with only a bit of nose congestion, the occasional cough, and a low-grade fever that Tylenol takes care of within minutes. This is my second episode with Covid; my first time was a fairly mild case, too. I have suspicions about where and from whom I contracted the virus both times, but nothing is certain.  And although I am fully “of age,” Paxlovid was not recommended for me either time. 

Still, I am surprised that Covid bit me in the butt again.  My friends and my family would confirm that my husband and I continue to take more precautions against Covid than anyone else they know. Masks have become a way of life for us..We’re comfortable wearing them because since 2020, we’ve never really stopped.

I’ve wracked my brain for the answers to the questions that plague me; Who gave it to me this time and when? And how in the world did it get through my mask? Was it that man who achoo-ed a loud, unprotected projectile sneeze in the elevator, just as I was walking in, fumbling for my mask? Or was it that one time when I was so immersed in a texting conversation as I stepped onto a bus that I forgot to put on my mask for most of the ride?

Anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that I am frequently the only one masked up in buses, on subways, in the unventilated laundry room in my building basement, as well as with my in-person personal training clientele. I like to greet people and leave people with my bare face, but I slip a mask on once I’m working closely with anyone and in relatively small spaces. 

Similarly, when I’m in an examining room with any doctor at all, I’m usually the only one of the two of us who wears a mask. I am thankful that starting with the AIDS epidemic, dentists are mandated to wear masks when working on a patient’s teeth.

I protect myself in order to protect my spouse, who has an underlying health issue which causes Covid to be a bigger threat. I also do it because my profession means working primarily with people over 70, and in close proximity. I’m protecting them, too. I don’t want to be that Covid-carrying honeybee flitting from person to person, leaving contagion behind as I go about my day. Four of my clients are over 90, and some are immunocompromised because of conditions ranging from chronic fatigue syndrome to rheumatoid arthritis to cancer.

My husband and I have been two of only a handful of passengers among hundreds wearing masks on domestic and international flights alike in the past three years. Yeah, even all eight hours to Paris and back, two years ago.

There is another major reason behind our strong efforts to avoid getting Covid: it is extremely costly.  My husband and I are both self-employed and when we can’t work, we receive no sick-pay compensations. Covid gouges an income like little else, because even an actively sick spouse at home creates an unsafe environment for paying customers to enter.

The summer of 2022 was our first up-close-and-personal introduction to Covid. My husband woke up with a nose that wouldn’t stop running and tested positive.  We panicked a bit; we threw on our N-95 masks, and the strike of fear in our hearts was undeniable. I was shocked that instantly, I was afraid to be in the same room with the man I’d been married to for over 40 years.  The terror associated with this virus had become so instilled in me over the previous two years that anyone infected with Covid was immediately considered to be an existential threat.  I was afraid to breathe the same air as my loving husband.

Some people have evacuation plans in the case of an earthquake or a tornado or a flash flood.  Others have hospital bags packed for when a woman’s water breaks and the first labor pains begin.  Since 2020, my husband and I have had a set plan should one of us get sick with Covid.

So I flew into action, grabbing my toothbrush and towel from our shared bathroom, my pillow, pajamas, a few clothes from my closet, my toiletries and my cell-phone charger, and set up camp for myself in our spare room.

Two hours later I headed to the pharmacy around the corner to pick up my husband’s prescription for Paxlovid, and he started the regimen immediately.

As we settled into this new normal and started to feel relatively safe, the novelty of it got a bit cute.  I served him the first night’s dinner on a tray which I set on the floor outside the door to our bedroom where he was in seclusion.  I knocked loudly on the door.

“Room service!” I announced with a giggle, trying to make light of the situation.

An hour later, the tray was back outside the door, all food consumed, a crisp $20 bill tucked under the fork, and a note that asked, “What time do you get off work?”

The next night included another $20 bill and this time the note asked me to come back with a French maid’s uniform on, and nothing underneath. 

Damn, that Paxlovid works.

Problem was, I didn’t own a French maid’s uniform.

We texted back and forth all day long, for days.  We FaceTimed a visit before bedtime, 20 feet and two closed doors apart. By Day 4, we opened our separate bedroom doors with N-95 masks on, standing unnaturally and awkwardly distanced, looking at each other like strangers to say, “I love you. Good night.”

By Day 6, my husband finally tested negative and we cautiously resumed eating dinner together and holding hands for a walk in Central Park.  We decided to keep our separate living quarters for a few more days, just in case.

It happened on Day 8: Paxlovid rebound. We had to start his quarantine all over.  This time it wasn’t cute anymore.  I swallowed the lump in my throat as I returned to preparing his meals on trays day after day again.  The cash tips and light jokes on scraps of paper that had awaited me before the rebound no longer came.

That was three years ago. My husband and I have each had a second episode of Covid.  The terror we used to feel doesn’t rise above a low roar now. There is still the very real threat of a life-threatening outcome for my husband with Covid, but in general and with Paxlovid, contracting Covid has become more of a drudgery, something to endure.

This week was my turn to go back into seclusion.  This week my husband has been delivering the trays of meals to my closed door. Our quarantine plan has worked for us, for we’ve never contracted Covid from the other.

As soon as I saw that second pink line come up unmistakably positive, I was immediately aware of how differently we were handling it. There was no panic; instead, our moods were of calm, methodical Plan B thinking, along with understandable disappointment.  This time, I implemented our old Code Red system by walking purposefully into our bedroom---grabbed my pillow and toothbrush and other necessities and settled into this oddly familiar spare room existence again for another week or so of self-quarantine.

The upside: My room of isolation is where my computer is and now, I have endless hours to write. The downside: boredom, loneliness, and cabin fever.  This too shall pass.

Since that first attack of Covid three years ago in this home, however, one problem remains: I still don’t own a French maid’s uniform.

Born and raised in Portland, OR, Carol danced with the Portland Ballet Company for six years. After moving to New York City in 1979 and marrying a musician a few years later, she built a flourishing career as a personal trainer. Her business has spanned four decades and continues to this day, now specializing as a senior citizen fitness consultant. Two children and three grandchildren later, she is a published memoir essayist: “25 Miles to Go Now” Feminine Collection, 2018; “Warm Bread,” The Cooks Cook, 2023. Her first novel is nearing completion.