Willem

I decided to get up off the floor and fight.

REDONDO BEACH, CALIFORNIA: I never thought that Covid would actually find its way to the U.S. 

In March 2020, when my cruise ship returned to the States, I expected to find people wearing masks but the face shields, gloves, and occasional hazmat suits caught me off guard. Although I had no symptoms and never thought I could catch Covid, I put myself into quarantine as requested by the U.S. Government upon re-entry.

I began noting odd happenings with my body. I never had a temperature, but after thirteen days of random minor symptoms, I lost my senses of taste and smell. I thought that I had Covid, but the country’s leaders said Covid was a hoax. 

But my symptoms were real. After three weeks they started combining, I experienced stomach pain, headaches, high temperatures, and mental confusion at the same time. Although I had difficulty breathing at times and mental lapses, along with the other symptoms, I never went to the hospital. I tried but I’d been told that unless I couldn’t breathe at all, the hospital could do nothing for me. 

I didn’t realize that a lack of oxygen likely caused my brain fog. The information available about Covid was confusing. I called a Covid support line and didn’t find that helpful.

Covid is sneaky. It makes you think it’s gone, but then comes back and you’re wiped out again.

This happens over and over, forcing you to fight back every time. There are moments when you want to give up; it’s too much work to go on. It wears you down.

I used to take care of some very difficult daycare kids. Sometimes, I felt like giving in, “Okay, you want candy for dinner, eat candy.”

Covid was the brattiest kid I ever took care of. There were many times when I felt like saying, “Fine, eat all the candy you want.”

On Easter weekend, all the Covid symptoms hit me at once, like a gang of bullies beating me up. I got through the first round and thought I’d be okay, and then they just kept on beating. I didn’t think I’d make it.

In the next round, I decided not to fight. Covid hit me hard in the stomach, then the head, then I lost coordination and fell. 

My phone went off. I was upset, told Covid I needed to shut the phone off so that I could go peacefully. But I picked up my phone. There were messages from my mom and two fellow dancers.

Three people suddenly reached out to say they loved me.

Covid continued to hit me really hard, but I kept trying to read the messages on my phone. I discovered several hundred responses to a Facebook post I’d made earlier, people who supported me, people who needed me not to give up. I knew I could not give up caring for my mom; it would kill her. 

I knew it was gonna hurt and meant choosing pain, but there wasn’t another option.

I decided to get up off the floor and fight.

I called my sister and asked her to be my “just in case” person, to take care of what needed to be done if I died. The previous times I lost consciousness, I was lucky. If COVID attacked my lungs during one of those periods, I’d be helpless to stop it. That would be it. My sister was great, took on the responsibility, talked me through the tough times.

I got connected with a handful of nurses around the world and got small pieces of useful information. I fought. I took supplements, hot baths, did whatever I could to rid myself of Covid. Covid kept beating me up, but, gradually, it got weaker, and I slowly began to recover.

It has been a tough year; fighting to come back from the virus was something I never thought I’d have to face. I was singled out as the guy who had Covid, and all sorts of weird stories were circulating about the disease: it was incurable, a hoax, etc. I felt very alone.

After all, I went through to recover, it has been very difficult to hear people say that my disease was a fake. But I made it through.

Yes, I have Covid scars, but I’m stronger than I was before.

How has Covid changed me? My lungs are not the same. Fortunately, someone told me to exercise every day, even though it hurt, to work at expanding my lungs. I pushed myself to work out, and it felt good, but my lungs don’t feel the same, not as elastic. I still have episodes of mental fog; I call them “the blinks,” but they are now less frequent.

I even got to a point where I felt so good I decided to do my taxes. Later, I got a letter from the IRS saying I’d put the wrong social security number on the form. How’d I done that?

This is the “new” me. He has less lung capacity, a brain that fogs out sometimes, but the “new” me beat the virus. The “new” me takes better care of me and keeps me grateful and focused on what is really important in life and the beauty of the natural world around us.

It’s scary, it’s terrifying, it’s something I never thought I’d have to go through.

I’m proud of myself for getting up off the floor and getting past Covid.

If I feel down, I remind myself that I chose to be here. I now have the opportunity to rebuild a life that I’m passionate about, and I have everything I need to make this happen.

The only way we beat Covid is together. We can make the choice to care about each other. If me wearing a mask keeps one person from suffering what I went through, it’s certainly worth the small inconvenience.