May 4, 2020

The bitter anniversary. Fifty years.

After one of the fullest and most accomplished days of the Lock Down, I sat on the sofa realizing I was getting very, very ill. Shuddering chills, projectile vomiting, and explosive diarrhea arrived at exactly the same moment, which made for interesting accommodations in the bathroom. In a few minutes I was so drained merely standing up and going to bed seemed beyond my capacities. I knew it wasn’t Covid, though it sure looked like it, but my old nemesis phlebitis. For one thing, phlebitis doesn’t affect the lungs. For another, it’s bacterial and there are drugs for it, whereby before 9 PM the worst of it was over, though I still had the turbulent, hallucinatory, fever-ridden night ahead of me. It is now early afternoon and I think I will live, though I’m exhausted, maybe still feverish. Not sick enough to sleep, not well enough to move around much. Making mistakes typing in almost every word.