Take my Own Advice
MEDICAL AND MENTAL HEALTH UPDATE
My husband has COVID.
He woke up yesterday morning with a sore throat, nasal congestion, and body aches. Just a few hours later, he tested positive on a rapid antigen test (pictured above).
Sometimes reality hits you like a ton of bricks. Sitting together outside the urgent care center, we stared at his positive COVID test stick like we stared at each of the three positive pregnancy tests over our 20-year marriage (we have three kids): with a combination of bewilderment, fear, and nervous anticipation of a new reality.
We drove home (separately) in distress, simultaneously trying to recall his every movement over the prior 48 hours, plan for an unpredictable two weeks, and mitigate the rush of anxiety.
We called our families. We warned my parents, with whom we spent time over Thanksgiving (mostly outdoors, but still). I reviewed with them the quarantine and testing procedures, preventative measures, and their chances of mild versus severe illness. Their fear was palpable through the phone. I wept after I hung up.
I tried to organize my thoughts as they zoomed through my mind. What about the kids’ school, my work, my patients, groceries, the dog, Clorox WIPES?? When should the rest of us get tested? What if I get sick? Who will care for the kids? Who else have we seen? How is this even happening??
Physically my husband is okay: holed up in the basement, isolated from the rest of us, taking Advil as needed. But naturally he is guilt-ridden for taking a single spontaneous risk over the past eight months that likely led to his infection. Last week after work he ran an errand on his bike and, on the way home, ended up having a beer with a neighbor. That neighbor tested positive a few days later.
They were inside for a total of 20 minutes.
Let’s put this into context for a minute. He had a socially distanced beer with a friend for 20 minutes—on his birthday, awaiting my arrival home from work, after months of vigilance, and experiencing the natural COVID “decision fatigue” that we’re all feeling. It’s not an excuse, but let’s face it: people around the country are flying on planes, crowding into restaurants, convening indoors for hours, and hosting large family get-togethers. All of these activities are technically permissible, but they pose enormous risk. Case rates will continue to surge this winter, and deaths will follow.
My dear husband also feels terrible for throwing a grenade into our lives. Not only is he an attorney who’s been working from home since March, he’s also been handling most of the household duties (driving kids, grocery shopping, laundry) while my work has been full-throttle for the last eight months. He also happens to be a splendiferous father whose absence will be felt as the kids skulk around the house after dinner looking for a game of Cribbage, a toss of the football, or a quick laugh. In a split second, my wingman is gone.
Over a makeshift dinner of hotdogs and carrot sticks last night, the kids and I caucused. We discussed logistics: testing, food, staying apart while toughing it out together. We aired grievances and discussed “our frustration at dad as a surrogate for our real feelings of anxiety and overwhelm.” We decided to abandon the blame game, shore up energy for a bumpy two weeks, and divvy up the chores. Stella did the dishes. George set up the HEPA air filters. Henry collected bottles of vitamin D and zinc. I ate ice cream.
The kids and I will quarantine for 14 days. For my teenagers, not being able to participate in already limited in-person schooling or an occasional outdoor, distanced, social gathering is a huge loss. It’s hard for them to imagine being any more disconnected from reality than they already are. While they have learned a lot about patience and perseverance over the last eight months, they are suffering in myriad ways.
In these moments of uncertainty, I have to believe that everything happens for a reason. And that vulnerability is the birthplace of resilience and self-awareness. I already see it happening all around me.
Like life, my work also changed on a dime as of yesterday. I’ve been seeing patients in person in the office every day since March but only for things that cannot be done virtually (like a physical exam). But as of this morning, I’ve pivoted fully to telemedicine. I’ve had to rework my schedule, cancel some important—albeit brief—in-person visits, abandon my regular COVID testing duties in the garage, and lean on my medical partners. As long as I feel well, I will do the best I can to care for patients from afar.
The kids and I feel fine so far. We will get COVID PCR tests five days after our last exposure to my husband. We will get tested again after a week. We will quarantine regardless of any negative test. If one of us tests positive or develops symptoms, that person will begin isolation for 10 days. We will wear masks in the house in case one of us is incubating the virus and the others are not. We will try not to worry about getting sick until it happens. We will get comfortable with hotdogs and baby carrots for dinner. We will text dad when his hotdog and carrots are on the floor outside his isolation room.
We will take things as they come.
In the spirit of making lemonade out of lemons, today my husband offered himself up for the monoclonal antibody study at GW hospital for newly-diagnosed COVID patients. After a confirmatory positive COVID PCR test early this morning, he got his intravenous infusion this afternoon. Whether he got placebo or the “real” Regeneron syrup of laboratory-made protective antibodies we will never know. But he feels good about participating. The kids and I are proud of him.
I’ll be honest. I am quite worried about getting sick. I’d be surprised if I didn’t. After all, household contacts are at highest risk of infection. Waiting to succumb to coronavirus—my foe for most of the year—feels a bit like riding the rickety roller coaster at Six Flags called “The Viper,” waiting to crest the gigantic hill with a mix of fear, nausea, and amazement that you actually volunteered to suddenly and speedily plunge into the air as strangers shriek all around you.
But most of all, I’m worried about how many other people are in situations like ours: accidentally risking the health, safety, and well-being of ourselves and others with a small break in the protective seal. I’m worried about our collective mental health. Our emotional defenses are down right when we need them most. We’re all exhausted from the pandemic and the vigilance it requires to stay safe, yet the virus awaits us the minute we let our guard down. It’s happening everywhere, invisibly.
But please don’t give up! We’re not.
And by telling you our story, I hope you will remember that you are vulnerable, too. I hope that you will be even more cautious than you already are. I hope you will act like everyone around you has COVID (because a lot of them do), always wear your mask, and avoid indoor spaces—even with people you love and trust—and wash hands carefully. I hope that this story will save someone else from suffering—and maybe save a life.
To my patients, I am here for you as always. In fact, without you I might lose my mind at home in quarantine! And to my readers, I am so grateful for your support of me and my family. If I’m slower on email and social media this week, you will know why.
And to you, coronavirus, I feel you closing in on us. Your ruthlessness is palpable and cruel. You have sickened and killed so many people. And now that you live in my house, I’m on my knees begging people to do everything they can to shut you down.
I’ll keep you updated and check in later this week. Until then, stay strong and be well.