And then I got it…twice.

I made it through the pandemic without getting Covid. I had all the boosters available to me, including one last September. I carried hand sanitizer and wipes. I avoided crowds.

But last October, I had Depeche Mode tickets. DM has provided the soundtrack of my life. I’ve seen them before, three times, albeit twenty-something years ago. But learning about Andy Fletcher’s death made me beg my hubby for tickets. I didn’t care how much they were, because let’s be honest. Memento Mori may very well be their last tour. And tonight is the finale in Cologne, Germany. Gee, I’d give anything to be there. But I digress.

My friend and I hopped on the train to NYC on that exceedingly warm October night. For three hours I stood, sang, and danced with thousands of other fifty-somethings like me. MSG was filled with voices singing each lyric while music pulsed beneath our feet and through our bodies. I hadn’t felt so alive in so long that I didn’t want it to end. The energy was palpable, and I was twenty-three again.

Until three days later when I was suddenly achy. I was a bit nauseous. My throat was sore. So I took one test, then two. The two pink lines showed up before the required fifteen-minute wait time.

I was terrified and ran to Urgent Care. Their rapid test came back negative. I called my GP to let her know about the home tests and ask for Paxlovid. And then came the rapid-fire decisions one makes when having Covid. Where to isolate. Notify work. Let my friends and co-workers I had been in contact with know I could have passed it on. Figure out who would take care of the dog, the cats, our teenager, my hubby. Write work plans. Order groceries and all the other things one does when one feels they are the household CEO. I had to return to Urgent Care for a PCR test for work. That came back positive…

As the CDC suggested, I shut the door on the world for five days. At first, I was restless. Then I was tired. Next, I binged some Netflix series, read a bit, colored in my mandala coloring book, and doom scrolled through the hours. By about day three, I was content. My world had stopped and I could take a breath. I almost didn’t want to come out. Day four was cleaning day. On day five I emerged from my cocoon, happy to be with my family again. Day seven, I tested negative. No more Paxlovid iron taste in the back of my mouth, just the plastic air from the K95 mask.

No one else in my house got Covid.

I figured I had won.

Until our son got it for Christmas. And my hubby got it on Valentine’s Day. And despite spending five days on the living room couch, I got it a second time.

The insurance company denied my request for Paxlovid, despite this time I was wheezing so bad that I could hardly talk. It took two days, some threats, and two hours on the phone to get the script. A work friend suggested I come in masked since I was fever free. I thought they were joking and stayed home, blowing through most of my sick time.

No one seemed to care that I could be contagious.

Who gets Covid twice in four months? I did.

Work is a cesspool of germs. And the protocols once offered don’t exist anymore. There isn’t any hand sanitizer or wipes available in the classrooms. And so many kids come to school sick. Worse, some people admit that they don’t bother testing their kiddos anymore, I mean the pandemic “ended” years ago, right?

Then three weeks after having Covid, my husband had a cardiac event. We spent some time in an emergency room. Did you know that Covid can affect your heart muscle?

But Covid’s over, right?

My favorite track on Memento Mori is “People are Good.” “Keep telling myself that people are good. Whisper it under my breath. So I don’t forget.”

I hope we do a better job of caring for one another. Less “me”, and more “we”.