The first anniversary of my diagnosis with Covid is looming on the horizon. A year ago, I was the pre-Covid me that I now mourn. I was healthy ( or seemed to be) and happy. My relationships were wonderful and I felt like I was in the best place I could be. I loved my life.

It’s a year later and it feels like everything that matters has been altered. Yes, I survived a five and a half month hospitalization where the only respite from fear and anxiety was sleep, three intubations and several near death events. But my life has changed drastically. One of the most noticeable things is that I lost a lot of weight—something I struggled with all of my adult life. Now I’m much thinner having lost the equivalent of a fifth grade student in weight. The negative of losing that much weight at my age is that my skin looks like a slept-in wrinkled shirt—saggy and baggy. I tell people that I look better with clothes on. Because  I’ve gone down several sizes, I had to give away all of the clothes I loved and replace them. I wasn’t sure of my actual size—so it was a guessing game at first. I’ve become adept at returning stuff to QVC and Amazon.

In addition to these changes, I need to use a walker to get around. I’m doing okay with it and don’t feel diminished by it. Yes, I can take about 5 steps without it—but I look like an overgrown toddler—my balance is poor and my gait is awkward. But that’s ok. Sometimes, pressure is brought to bear on me by well-meaning people. I’ve had people tell me that “if I practiced enough with that thing ( as they point at the walker), you could get rid of it.” At first, I felt diminished and angered by that. I’ve come to realize that walking with an assistive device is fine and I’m more than okay for needing it. Often, when people make that remark, I recall the first time I sat up on the edge of the bed in rehab. My head wobbled like a bobble doll and I fell back on the bed, unable to hold my body upright. It took work and persistence to develop the physical strength I needed just to sit up. Then I had to learn to stand. I remember distinctly my terror of falling as I was lifted to my feet by my therapist. I was so disoriented and I couldn’t feel my legs which I thought were buckling under me. “I’m falling, I’m falling,” I shouted into the therapist’s ear while he yelled back, “No, you’re not!” He was right. It was exhilarating to be able ( eventually) to stand with a walker for a few seconds and finally, to take 3 sideways steps. I was overjoyed at this progress.

Physical Therapy was challenging. I had to sit in a grotesquely uncomfortable wheelchair for hours every day to develop my core strength. There was nothing to do but watch daytime TV. I got to know  Hoda, Barbara, Tamara, and Ellen through this experience. My go-to channel was HGTV  I had always enjoyed “Love it or List It,” and I became enthralled with “Good Bones” in addition to “Property Brothers.”  When I walked down the hall on the walker, with a foley tube, feeding tube and wound vacuum attached to my body, the therapist pushed a wheelchair behind me so I could sit down every ten steps. Standing and playing catch with another therapist was exhausting. I was frightened that I would never gain enough mobility to live in my own home. That’s when I started calling assisted living facilities to inquire about the services they offered.

After a draining two months of therapy, I was finally able to walk with a wheeled walker for 100 feet without needing to rest.

So when people tell me if I just would practice more with that thing—I tell them “I’m fine  the way I am.”

In addition to all of that, I had intractable pneumonia which was exacerbated when I ate. I was aspirating tiny amounts of food into my lungs. I had a feeding tube inserted into my chest, and received all of my nourishment from that for several months. Speech therapy helped me to learn to swallow properly again. The therapists taught me several exercises which I had to do every day, and gradually introduced solid food into my diet. I’ve learned that there are foods I can’t swallow easily even now—white bread toast is one of them.

In addition to all of the physical changes in my life, I am trying to cope with what appears to be a form of PTSD, for which I am seeking counseling. I desperately want to write about what I went through but those words elude me.

I can do most of what I want or need to do, except take my trash and recycling bins in and out of the garage—tasks I lean on my significant other, Mike, to do. I am able to prepare my breakfast and lunch because they are simple meals. For dinner, I rely on my friend Susan who whips up a filling meal most evenings. I used to cook several times a week and invite Mike and Susan here—but now I depend on take-out or prepared meals that I can simply heat up in the microwave. Occasionally, we go to a local restaurant that uses safe protocols. Over the years, I’ve collected all sorts of kitchen gadgets—most of which I will never again use. I’m thinking of selling them at a garage sale next Fall.

 The house is orderly and clean—and I’m proud of myself for being able to keep it that way.  I get the laundry washed and put away—eventually! Same thing with the dishes. Other people do most of my grocery shopping—including a friend who sends in a Walmart order and has it delivered. I am anxious about going into stores because I think I got Covid at the supermarket.

All of my relationships have changed. I depend on my friend Susan a lot—dinners almost every day, walking my dog in the morning, and her understanding when I am upset. She shops if I need a few things and has helped me to update my wardrobe. My sister ( also a Susan) texts me every morning and evening. She reminds me that I have survived an extraordinarily difficult illness and always encourages me to “ Be kind to yourself.” She points out that I am more than surviving, I am thriving in many ways.  My other brothers and sisters have shown their love to me in wonderful ways, too. One of my brothers, Michael, sent pizzas to the staff the first time my life was saved. Brian, another brother, updated my family and friends on Facebook as I struggled to survive.  When I was hospitalized, I got lovely handwritten notes that lifted me up from my sister, Rosemary. another brother, Tim, texts me every day. I  feel cherished and loved by all of them.

My significant other, Mike, and I had to restructure our relationship. Unfortunately, when my anger about my situation overwhelmed me, I lashed out at him. I was angry because he chose to go out several times a week and  I felt threatened by a friendship he forged with a woman friend during my five and a half month hospitalization. I’ve come to understand how lonely and anxious he was during my illness. I realize that he needed a friend. But I was afraid that he was exposing me to the possibility of being reinfected with Covid by being around other people. When he would come to visit me at my friend Susan’s house where I was staying at first, we had to sit on the porch, wearing masks, 6 feet apart. The visit would last an hour, and then I would be too tired to have any more company. We never touched or kissed. The closest we got to being affectionate was waving goodbye and throwing a kiss with masks on.  It has taken months for us to get to become reacquainted, and for me to feel secure in our relationship.

When the Covid vaccine was offered here in Solivita, I breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, I could get the vaccine and feel that I was safer than before

While I know that the Covid vaccine isn’t a free pass to my old lifestyle, I feel better knowing I’ve had it. I’m still terrified of grocery shopping and feel horribly uneasy about crowds. If I find myself in a situation with a lot of people, I leave immediately. I’m anxious that people are going to stop taking precautions. I wear a mask all the time, even when I’m out riding in the golf cart to walk my dog. My “pod” is 3 people—me, Mike, and Susan. Almost all of the events or meetings I attend are on Zoom. Recently, I was talking to an acquaintance who has been attending plays, going to her time-shares, shopping, and playing cards almost every day. She had been vaccinated which is the only reason I was talking to her. I felt angry toward her—she was leading a pre-Covid life—the life I am mourning.

I lost six months of my life to this virus and have spent the last six months trying to make sense of what happened and to fix what’s broken. I’m not sure I’ll ever get back to my pre-Covid life. The thought of normalcy—not wearing a mask and socially distancing, avoiding crowds, keeping my circle small and tight—fills me with dread.

Covid has diminished all of our lives. Mine maybe more than others. I am not willing to take a lot of chances. I don’t gamble, and I don’t think this is the time to start.