Like the rest of the world, I became a Chappell Roan fan this summer. And while, in the six months since my first COVID infection, I’d learned the hard way that I could no longer use the little off brand stairmaster in my apartment, I’d begun to enjoy my gentle evening walks in the neighborhood with Chappell as May passed, and June.
I’d wait until 8 pm or 9, because in DC this late in the climate crisis it won’t drop below 90 much earlier than that. I’d coat myself in high-percentage DEET bug spray, the greasy, deep-woods stuff, none of that all-natural nonsense that well-meaning moms use to protect their kids and the local wildlife (including the mosquitoes).
And then I’d take a walk, a simple thing that had become a not-so-simple thing.
A walk feels less simple when you haven’t been able to walk much at all since November. When for months, walking triggered shortness of breath that lasted days and left you tearfully asking Reddit when it would end (answer: never and soon and wait and see). When for months after the shortness of breath months, exercise triggered migraines that lasted days, weeks, that ended in the emergency room, that ended in IVs full of steroids, that left me feeling drained and defeated and dull.
A kind doctor joked to me, “I want to open a Long COVID clinic- I’d get rich!” At least he believes in Long COVID, I thought to myself, and readjusted my mask. The IV fluids made me feel cold and strange. He brought me a blanket. I felt alone.
