Thank god we didn’t have a pod
This is not a story of profound loss, suffering, or hardship due to the pandemic. This is a story of some of the finer social points of being diagnosed with COVID-19, of mild disease and petty ostracization.
Dear reader, I was good. I mean, not paranoid-level good, but I was pretty careful. I haven’t eaten inside a restaurant, been to a party, or touched anyone outside of my family unit since March. I voted for Biden. I wear a mask outdoors. Generally speaking, I have followed the rules.
With one glaring exception: I didn’t use hand sanitizer. And I think that is what got me. The week in question, I made physical contact with the outside world three times: I got a coffee at my favorite coffee shop — a place I went regularly. I got gas. And I went to a specialty liquor store to stock up on Carpano Antica, my preferred vermouth for Manhattans. At all three of those locations, I grabbed physical things with my bare hands and did not wash them afterward.
Anyway, I got Covid. The course of my symptoms was atypical. I had an eensy, weensy little bit of a cough for a couple of days, which I blamed on the dry winter air. I had a couple of very, very brief dizzy spells, which I chalked up to staring at a computer too long.
And then, just before bedtime one night, I started burping. Burping like I never had before. Burping like I had chased half a bottle of red wine with an enormous bowl of ice cream — only more intense. I had never been frightened by a burp before, but I was frightened by those burps. The next morning, I was dizzy and fatigued and messed up in a most peculiar way. ‘Rona had come to visit.
With the onset of the physical symptoms came the social implications. And first among them, I was surprised to discover, was a certain amount of shame and embarrassment.
All of our friends are well-behaved when it comes to social distancing. As far as I know, we are the only ones who got it. As far as I know. Because, having been through the social aspect of the disease, I can imagine many people keep it a secret. I certainly understand why.
Getting Covid implies a certain level of sloppiness, of carelessness, of a lack of good values. It is the opposite of virtue signaling: it is vice signaling. If I am being cynical, I would add it has a whiff of the low-class. There are ugly implications there, and I won’t linger on them. But suffice to say, people can’t help making some mean associations subconsciously. I am sympathetic, the subconscious makes its own rules (I talk about this more in my book).
Plus, there are the political ramifications. I am to the right of most of my friends politically, though still pretty left. Did I get Covid from being deliberately defiant? Was I secretly attending MAGA rallies? The week before, at my kid’s soccer practice, I had gotten into a rather heated political argument with one of my more woke friends, and now I had come down with the Trump disease. Justice served!
But disease has a primitive power to trigger deep instincts, regardless of politics. We know, as homo sapiens, to social distance. We know to be afraid of disease, or rather, sick people. And if we are the ones that are sick, that fear can turn to shame. Shame can lead to bad choices and strange behavior.
When you get coronavirus, you need to tell everyone you were in contact with the previous 2 days (or more). And that is where public disease management meets human psychology.
I mean, do I have to tell everybody? Do I have to call up the coffee shop I went to and (cringe) say “Hey, uh…you don’t really know who I am but” (cringe) “I have coronavirus” and I probably got it all over your shop because I am a dirty, slovenly freak.
In the end, I didn’t call them. My wife messaged them on Instagram instead. I still haven’t been back. I am ashamed. I spent the last five years trying to convince those sullen Millennials over there I am cool, and now I’m back at square one. Of course, I could have gotten it from them. But since I am the one with the disease, I am the one who carries the burden of proof.
I texted one person I had been in direct contact with. I had stopped by his house briefly a few hours before my epic burp fest. We wore masks, but we stood unusually close to each other as if to say, “yes, we are wearing these dorky masks but our body posture is manly and defiant.” In that spirit of manliness, he invited me inside briefly to check out their new bathroom remodel. I dutifully admired the tilework, then I left. When I texted him that I was feeling unwell, I felt guilty and ashamed. They tested negative, thank god. But the aroma of judgment lingers, at least in my imagination. I wonder if he told his wife he let me in to see the tilework. I bet not.
A couple of weeks before I came down with Covid, we had started using the babysitting services of a local teenager whose grandmother lives nearby. We took precautions, of course. Front and back door open, everyone wearing masks. It was a bizarre experience, like your children had become volunteers in some science experiment. When I came down with the disease, we informed the babysitter and ended it. Weeks later, I passed her on my evening sanity walk around the neighborhood. The look she gave me…it makes me shudder to think about it. She could have killed her grandmother babysitting for us! I felt really bad about it until I noticed that the grandmother doesn’t wear a mask.
At least I didn’t lie. We live in Los Angeles, and celebrity news inevitably trickles down to us. We heard from a friend about a celebrity influencer who canceled a (socially distanced) event because she had “strep throat”. Really? Strep throat? Hmm. What a weird coincidence. A few days later, she admitted it was coronavirus. She blamed her Mexican housekeeper.
Another acquaintance only confessed that she had had it after we told her our status (for technical reasons I shall keep confidential). She admitted she hadn’t told any of her friends. She and my wife talked for half an hour on the phone about the awkwardness of the whole thing. Lepers, bonding.
Weirdly, I had no problems telling my coworkers. Shame? Nah, who cares. I hadn’t seen these people in person in months. They could have been replaced by chatbots by now for all I know. I posted a screenshot of my positive result to the #copingwithcorona Slack channel. I got a bunch of soup bowl emojis. Oh, and a call from HR telling me, essentially, that the next time I get the plague I am under no obligation to tell anyone about it, and they are happy to help me cover it up — thanks, guys!
But it wasn’t telling acquaintances that was most uncomfortable, it was when friends we hadn’t told checked in. When do you tell them? You aren’t seeing them anyway, so there’s no epidemiological reason to tell them. If you do tell them, there is the embarrassment and the added annoying phone calls. Plus unspoken judgment. But never mentioning it and then having it come out weeks or months later could be really weird.
One set of friends we had not told invited us to a Zoom reading of A Christmas Carol, a virtual version of a yearly tradition. We were planning on attending. But then I thought: What if one of the kids blurted out we had the coronavirus? I could tell the kids not to tell anyone, but then I would be imparting my own shame onto them, and teaching them to conceal — a useful skill, but they are young.
And then, while I was contemplating this profound moral dilemma, I stumbled onto another: I realized I had actually seen these people, in person, on a day that, with a big stretch, could theoretically fall within the contact-tracing window. I had completely forgotten! I mean, it was outside, we all wore masks, we voted for Biden, and it all depended on when you started counting the days, but…
Now I really didn’t want to tell them. I tried to reason with myself: If they had gotten Covid, they would have told us…right? Hmm. Somehow that logic didn’t seem to add up.
The Zoom Christmas Carol was fast approaching. If we didn’t attend, it would be noticed, a possible sign of Covid. If we did, I risked my kids spilling the beans, causing a major party foul, at the very least.
Finally, the night before, I texted the hosts. Here’s what I dictated to Siri:
“Looking forward to the Christmas Carol tomorrow. Heads up that we are all Covid positive over here. The disease is mostly over and we’re fine just wanted to let you know didn’t feel like bringing it up tomorrow. I don’t really feel like talking about it either to be brutally honest as I’ve been talking about it with everybody I have to tell for various reasons for the last week and a half. But we are fine. Be paranoid. Wash your hands if you go in stores.”
The “wash your hands” part seems like advice, but it’s actually a form of virtue signaling. Reading between the lines: I had, of course, been very very careful, but maybe forgot to wash my hands once or twice, a minor sin.
No one mentioned it during A Christmas Carol and we haven’t spoken since.
After the awkwardness of contact tracing, and informing (or not) friends, relatives, and neighborhood gossips, there is the awkwardness of recovery. A little immunology 101 people: Once you get a disease, and recover, you can no longer spread the disease. This is a well-known thing. It’s not like emerging science or something someone posted to Reddit.
Yet it is at this point that all these people, well-educated, well-intentioned, non-Qanon following people, turn into conspiracy theorists. They turn to Google and dig and dig until they find justification for their irrational fears. Someone, somewhere (France? Bolivia? Easter Island?) may have gotten Covid from someone who had fully recovered. It’s possible! You never, never know.
Several weeks after the disease had run its course, my wife had a bizarre run-in. She was dropping something off at a friend’s house when the husband stepped outside, unaware she was there. When he saw her, his face froze in a look of pure terror. “I’ve never seen someone so afraid,” she told me when she got home, shaking her head in disbelief. They were ten yards away from each other. They’re very nice people. We used to have socially distanced playdates, but we won’t be seeing them again until we’re all vaccinated. June?
Until the most recent surge in LA, I used to meet with a few friends for socially distanced drinks on the front lawn. BYOB. I don’t think they’re still meeting for drinks. But I don’t know. Would they tell me if they are? Will they ever feel comfortable seeing me again, pre-vaccination? Would I if I were them?
And then there’s the whole mask paradox. I don’t need to wear a mask: For the next few months, at the very least, I can’t get it, and I can’t give it. Yet, I wear a mask. The paradox is most ridiculous when I walk past other people who aren’t wearing a mask, especially the ones who look at me defiantly, as if to say, “don’t judge me for not wearing a mask.” Dude, I don’t even know where to start.
I have mixed emotions about getting COVID-19. On the one hand, it was not a pleasant disease. A month later, I am still getting over it. It was possible, though quite unlikely, that I could have gotten very sick, or even died. I still might suffer from “long Covid.” And then there’s all this petty nonsense I’ve just cataloged.
On the other hand, I got the full 2020 experience. I didn’t just live through the pandemic, I lived through the disease. I’ve earned my merit badge, my tattoo. Long after the symptoms are gone (knock on wood) I will have the story. “Oh yeah”, I’ll brag, “lockdown was a drag, but did you know I actually got Covid?”
At which point, someone who lost their job, their health, or their loved one to the coronavirus will tell me to shut the hell up.
