My nineteen-year-old daughter, Ella, was diagnosed with Covid on Friday, a day after she came down with the signs — some coughing, nasal congestion, extremely sore throat, some pain while breathing., slightly elevated temperature. We’d been warned on Tuesday by a friend who’d visited Sunday that she’d tested positive, so even though we’ve had all the shots and wear our masks whenever we go anywhere, my wife and I were anxious all week for ourselves, since we’re in our mid- and late sixties. Instead, it hit our daughter, hard.
Ella is on the autism spectrum, and lives at home with us. She’s tiny for her age, with a little Minnie Mouse voice that makes her seem about ten years younger. She recently got a job as a bagger at the local grocery, a job she loves. It’s a big step for her, given her issues, but she’s gotten it into her head to save up for an iPhone, and the determination to make money pushed her to start applying for jobs despite her fears. She wears a mask at work, even though most customers and most of her fellow employees no longer do. Did she pick up Covid at work, or from our visitor? Who knows?
So, for three days now, we’ve stood by her bed and watched her writhe in agony, barely able to eat or swallow her pills because her throat is so sore. Ella is not equipped to handle the pain and discomfort. She thinks if it’s happening now, it will continue to happen forever. Sometimes I can distract her by asking questions about her new phone — she just lights up talking about it. Kids and their phones. It’s weird.
Friday was spent taking the home tests, then going to the Immediate Care place for tests and an x-ray, then to the Emergency Room for still more tests, then running around for prescriptions. Saturday started out calmly, she spent a lot of time sleeping, but by the afternoon she was awake and panicking over the pain. “Daddy, take me to the ER! Daddy, please!” We’d just been there yesterday, so I knew they wouldn’t be able to do anything more for her, and I knew they were busy and did not need us coming in again, but I couldn’t refuse. I knew just going to see a doctor again would reassure her that something was being done. (Her old parents’ tendency to just sit and ponder on things for a while before taking action drives her nuts.) I set the expectation that we should try to get them to look closer at her throat than they had the day before, but it was unlikely they could do anything about it.
The ER visit went smoothly and achieved its purpose - to calm her down. A throat spray was prescribed. Afterward, we went for a long, rambling drive, which Ella always enjoys as she listens to her Spotify playlist. I knew she ought to be at home, lying in bed, but lying in bed just focuses her attention on her discomfort. We finally came home, hung out for a while, then went for a drive to get a milkshake. This is where I tear up.
She couldn’t taste her milkshake. She could feel it was cold, but it had no flavor. When we got home, she tried some Jell-o my wife had made for her. No flavor. “Daddy, I can’t taste anything.” She’d heard this happened to Covid patients, and now it had happened to her.
Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.
This sweet, goofy kid, who has so much trouble figuring out the world around her but routinely beats me at Scrabble, who has no friends but her Mom and her Dad and her sister and her doting aunts, whose future is so uncertain, is now in pain and has even had the pleasure of tasting her ice cream taken away from her by selfish assholes who won’t get vaccinated or can’t be bothered to wear masks anymore.
I hear Ella upstairs right now, as I write this so early on a Sunday morning after another long night, whimpering in her sleep. What’s today going to bring? Will she feel better? Will she feel worse? How will she be a week from now? And why is this happening to her, of all people? Why Ella?
Please get all your shots if you haven’t had them yet. Please wear a mask when you go anywhere. Please stop giving this virus a place to breed and to mutate. Please stop making other people sick.
Please.
Sunday, May 29, 2022 · 5:18:04 PM +00:00
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Laughing Gravy
Thanks to everyone for the kind wishes and helpful suggestions. I had no idea this diary would receive such a response, and my wife and I truly appreciate the loving messages and positive energy in the comments. I needed to express my sadness, frustration, and a little anger, too, so in the middle of the night I just started writing, first as a comment in another diary, then in a diary of its own when that grew too long. The system for some reason isn’t always allowing me to respond to each comment with a thank you, so I’m including one here until I can write an individual note to each of you. Thank you again so much. Never give up.