It’s the first Thursday in June. I haven’t had a flare of symptoms in two weeks. Tomorrow is my last day of instruction. Next week will be about closing up the school, cleaning the classroom and desks, and doing grades.
I wake up. My lips are tingling. Little electrical shocks shoot out of them. My chest is tight.
“Dave I feel weird.”
I have to get up, take attendance, teach math. I work through the strange sensations enveloping my body. I am winded, my chest tight, after simply walking down the stairs.
As soon as I can, I retreat to my bedroom. All work is done lying down, this includes one on one zooms, helping students finish writing (or start) their science research papers due tomorrow.
I take a nap. Friday is the same. Tingling (and not the happy kind) moves in waves throughout my body. It washes over my face, moves down my arms, burns in my shoulders, and wraps me around from the back. I do not feel good. I lie in bed and grade papers.
Do I have Covid-19? How will I clean my room and get materials back to students if I can’t go into the building? I google covid symptoms, fuzzy tingling all over can be a lesser symptom. I need to get tested.
I don’t have a fever, but the strange tingling has put a strain on my already fragile system. My face now tremors, both hands shake, my arms jerk. Speaking is hard again. My sister visits. She seems both shocked and concerned at my state. The rapid eye closing and mouth quivering is back.
Sunday. I make Dave call around to get a test. I can’t speak clearly enough to try and make an appointment. Am I willing to drive to Smokey Point (30 minutes away without traffic)? Yes. Absolutely.
The drive is quiet. I haven’t been this far north in months. It is a classic, slightly dreary Pacific Northwest day, what locals call “June-uary.” I find the testing site and pull into a drive-thru tent. The nurse, decked out in PPE (personal protective equipment), checks my identity, hands me my test kit, and instructs me to pull forward to the next tent.
One tent ahead, another nurse introduces herself and instructs me on how to perform the test on myself. The test is vaguely reminiscent of a 23andMe DNA test. I insert a long q-tip in my nose and wait until there is resistance. Then I swivel the q-tip around. The nurse mentions to really try to get as much “surface area” as possible. The math teacher in me immediately files this away in my brain as a real life everyday use of “surface area.” I repeat the process in the other nostril.
I place the q-tip in the tube, break off the end of the wooden stick so that the q-tip is now the height of the tube, and replace the cap. I place the tube in the bag and seal. Taking the test bag from me, the nurse informs me I can expect results in 24 to 48 hours. The whole process has taken less than 5 minutes. I drive home and wait.
The rest of Sunday is spent in bed. I need to be better and I know that rest/lying down helps the tremors. I alternate between naps and grading papers/working on report cards.
Monday. I wait. The fuzzy, tingling, burning has not gone away. I worry every time I feel it in my lungs or when it takes over my tongue. Having all your nerves on high alert is exhausting. Stress is exhausting. Teaching in a a pandemic is exhausting. Parenting, especially in a pandemic is exhausting. Waiting for test results is exhausting. I am exhausted.
The call comes around 5 pm ( about 30 hours after my test, not bad). I am covid negative. Relief washes over me. I can go into the school building and clean out my classroom. The question now becomes, what is the going on with me?
It is the last week of school. There is so much to do. I feel lousy. My body feels like it is on fire, but I have to work. There is stuff that no one else can do. My friend, Alicia, scrubs all the desks, chairs, counters, and cubbies. I power through.
It’s been a week and the buzzing, tingling, nerve pain continues. It reminds me of when I had shingles, except shingles pain is more centralized and white hot in terms of pain. There is no rash, no fever.
I email Dr. McHH. He advises me to give it at least through the weekend, but to increase my gabapentin in the meantime. If it’s not better after that, make an appointment.
Okay. I can now say, that yes I have talked to my doctor. It’s the last day of school. I feel so sad, so empty. I loved this group of kids and the lack of closure hurts. If I am feeling this way, I can only imagine how the students must feel.
I sit through a final virtual staff meeting to talk about next steps given CDC and state school official guidelines. My body screams in pain, my right arm burns. Once the meeting ends, 1.5 hours later, I go to the office to complete the last step of the year — filing the report cards.
Kneeling on the ground, filing, I feel a sudden pop in my head. Everything goes black for a second and I can’t hear. Oh God! Please do not let me pass out in the school office. We do not need anymore drama. Frightened, I pause. Everyone is too busy to notice me. Okay. I’m okay. Play it cool. Let’s just finish this and get home. I NEED to get home.
Report cards filed. I find my staff gift (wine) and head home. I go straight to bed and sleep. In the evening, Eileen comes into my room crying. The last day of school has taken a toll on her as well. She didn’t get a “moving up” ceremony. She knows that the 4th of July parade is cancelled. She allows her mind to take her to scary places. What if she never gets candy again? What if there is no more Halloween or Christmas? What if everything fun is gone forever because of the pandemic?
I take Eileen in my arms. I listen. We talk about the scary things. I promise to get her laffy taffy and patriotic salt water taffy (her favorite things from the 4th of July Parade). I offer to let her help me make 4th of July as fun as possible despite the limitations. She cries, I hold, and we both begin to feel a little better.