Faith and Fairies

At some point, one just has to get out of the funk. One just has to say OK, kid, wash your face, comb your hair and put down the junk food, it’s time to see the sun again. Today could be that day. Ding dong the witch is dead. Or maybe she’s just been locked in her castle. There’s still a chance she can wreak havoc. All those flying monkeys with their Back the Blue and Don’t Tread on Me flags. They are just thinly veiled swastikas, their hot breath of hate in your face, snarling in the wind.

I am tired in a way that I never knew I could be. I think it’s my age. I feel really old. Especially this year. I feel it in my knees and I see it under my eyes. And where did these back rolls come from? I feel it in my never ending desire to stick my middle finger up at the TV. How did I get here?  

I am disappointed. I am angry. I am in mourning. 400,000 Americans are gone today. Some of them I knew. It didn’t have to get to this. It still could get worse.

So where does the positive, uplifting part come in? That remains to be seen. I have faith. 4 years is a long time for hate to thrive. It’s been really hard to watch, even harder to watch Christians fan the flames of hate and division while simultaneously lamenting about how the world suppresses them, hates them. I am one of them and I don’t see it. I live in a country with freedoms and I have never felt my faith suppressed. I am free to practice my faith. What I’m not free to do is make you practice my faith, subject you to my beliefs. 

Today is a new day. It’s a good day. I’m going to let some of my anger dissipate today. I’ve been trying to do that more and more. 

One of my favorite Bible verses is James 1:9

Know this, my beloved brothers: let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger

My middle finger needs to read that again, also that part of my brain that defaults to the “F” word in quick succession, and the parts of my face that sqinches up in disgust, highlighting the lines around my eyes, in between my nose, and around my mouth. That queasy feeling in my stomach also needs to read that again. 

Let me leave you with a positive story. Heartwarming if you will. Of course it involves my mom. I know I should get over her loss, too, but alas I am a work in progress and that shit isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. So my mom left a bin full of fairy garden houses, little miniature chairs, tables, fences, and figures. She was planning to make a garden with my kids, but never got a chance to do it. During the pandemic, me and the kids took out that bin and we made a fairy garden.

We actually had to move all the figures and houses and little furniture after a big rainstorm because where we first placed the garden got washed out. So we placed it around a tree that we planted in her honor after she died This was such a better place anyway. I have added other houses and figures and the fairy garden expands all the time. I have hung lights in the tree, bird houses that we’ve painted, and Christmas ornaments. It’s actually quite obnoxious and it’s in our front yard, but it gives me joy and makes me smile. I think it makes the kids smile, too. It’s hard to tell with them, they are getting older and that childlike twinkle is dimming. 

I am trying to capture it in a bottle for all of us. The fairy garden does not invoke middle fingers or “F” words. I’d like to move in and live there forever. It’s an escape. I told the kids I’d like to put fairy gardens all over town, just collect little houses and figures from junk stores and put them in public places. They think I’m crazy, but I saw the twinkle in their eyes for a brief moment.

So keep your eyes out for little fairy towns near you (perhaps you would be inspired to do the same?). I hope you find ways to dissipate the yucky feelings that have wormed their way in over the past 4 years. I hope you find ways to listen, be slow to anger and quick to forgive. Here’s to better days ahead.

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The Truth Hurts

I get up pretty early, even on the weekends. It’s automatic even if I try to sleep-in, the best I can do is 7:30. I like the time in the morning before the sun rises, before my family stumbles out of bed and begins their demands, “can I have a pop tart?” 

Sometimes, I waste the time by staring at Facebook, usually with a hot cup of tea in hand. Sometimes I read articles and try to wrap my head around the absolute lack of leadership that has led us to almost 400,000 COVID deaths in the US. I scoff at the voices that raise up and say it’s not real. I know they just can’t face the truth. Facing the truth about COVID would mean facing the truth about other things like the fact that the president is a con artist and then their whole worlds would fall apart. Instead they wrap themselves up in the warm snuggly blanket of conspiracy theories that continue to guard them against the cold hard facts of reality.

We all do that to some degree. I do it. I call it survival. 

We lost one of our coworkers this week. Sunday night. I worked that day in the Urgent Care that our clinic has on the weekend. I drove by the hospital where I knew she was laying and tears welled up in my eyes. I said a prayer to God. She had been in that building for close to a month, on a ventilator, her family informed that her time on this earth was growing thin, decisions would have to be made. No one wants to make those decisions about the people they love. I feel like we have made a contract with God somewhere in this fine mess that those are His decisions to make, not ours. He should take that out of our hands, but alas, it does not always work out that way. Greater plan, I guess. 

My prayer was this, “God please don’t let her suffer. Keep her or take her, but please end her suffering.”

That night she passed. 

I found out the next morning. I work in a big office with lots of providers and nurses. We all felt utter shock. Numb. I wanted to just have a day to myself, but there were patients to see, messages to answer. We were still in a pandemic and my job that day was to work in the respiratory clinic seeing all of the potential COVID infected patients. I would not be able to ignore COVID that day and what it had taken away. I would have to stuff my feelings down for a while, ignore the facts and do my work as usual. 

The irony is that she contracted COVID just mere days from getting the first COVID vaccine. The week of her death, I had received my second shot. She was so close. As I sit here, it is impossible for me to wrap my head around the utter waste of life over the past year. This virus is nothing like the Flu. All those people that would post bullshit stats about the flu and COVID in those early days saying how they were equally harmful, I just want to throat punch them. You idiots. You thought you knew something and you had no fucking idea. 

Looking back over my career (spanning close to 17 years if you count residency), I can think of one patient that I have lost to Flu. I can think of at least 3 that I’ve lost in the past month to COVID. 

I’ve stuffed my feelings down pretty well. It’s one of the perks of my job, if you want to call it a perk. It may be a liability, at least to the human part of me. I’m really good at keeping up my emotional guard. How much terror, sadness, loss, angst, sorrow, grief, distress, anxiety, sleep deprivation, horror, despair can one person really process?? Turns out a lot. Especially this year. Turns out I can absorb a lot, but for how much longer? Hopefully, not much. The vaccines are here. The rollout has been less than stellar, but they are here and people are getting them. There is a glimmer of hope. Lives will be saved and I have to look at that. I turn my eyes to the hope and not the despair, it’s the only way through.

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Good Grief

Grief is a funny thing. Once you think you’ve mastered it, tucked it in a front shirt pocket over the heart where it can come along for the ride, but not get in the way, you end up leaning over and it falls on the floor. It causes a great stirring, making a ruckus as it rolls, clanging and banging with a great metallic clatter. Oh what a mess! Grief fell out again and it took my heart with it. 

In the beginning, when grief was allowed to run rampant, I had the sensation that I could not breathe. I felt every breath. It was as if I were sensing the life within me. Breath is life. Her last words were “I can’t breathe.” It’s all I ever thought about and her eyes. Whenever I closed my own eyes, I saw hers. Dull, grey, unblinking. Unwavering. Staring. She used to look at me with those eyes. Sometimes she would look at me too long, too much in awe, and I would be annoyed. It was as if she were looking at a piece of art in a museum. I hated that look. I didn’t want to be that special to her. 

Today, as I leaned over a patient sitting in a chair to listen to her heart, it struck me that her arms looked just like my mom’s. My mom was fair-haired and her arms were always pale with a splatter of freckles. Over the years, those freckles coalesced into the tell tale signs of aging. Larger patches of brown replaced the tiny freckles of youth. Her skin took on a crepey texture, like tiny wrinkles in a piece of paper. Subtle. They could be smoothed back out again. I look at my own arms now, they are starting to take that shape. I don’t have as many of the freckles/age spots as my mom did, but they are there. Ghosts of Christmas future. 

My eyes moved over her arms. I looked at the clothes that she was wearing. Just like my mom. A pair of slacks and a “dressy” t-shirt. Flowers with accents, glitter and diamonds. Maybe a scrawl of cursive, did it say, “dream?” I felt a pang in my chest. I had the sudden urge to hug this woman. Tell her how much I missed her. Tell her how hard things have been. How tired I felt. How I didn’t want to have this knowledge of how mean people could be.

How silly would it have been if I did hug her. Me in my face shield, N 95 mask, gown, gloves, during a pandemic. No one hugs anymore. No one especially hugs strangers. And she’s sick. I pulled back after listening to her heart, a little startled at my moments journey into grief. Could that have been my mother’s heart? The one I couldn’t restart? No this one is working just fine. Her lungs were good, too. I felt a mist of tears in my eyes. It was good to remember my mom. It brought me back to myself. I had tucked that grief away a little too well. I wasn’t feeling much of anything lately. I was going through the motions because there was just too much to feel. There was too much sickness and not enough of me to go around. 

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Today Was a Good Day

For some reason the blue of the sky seemed bluer today. The yellow and orange of the changing leaves against the backdrop of the sky seemed more vibrant. A weight was lifted. It was as if gravity itself was lighter. The sigh of 75 million voters (the most that have ever voted for a single candidate in the history of America) was like a fresh breeze on my face. I turned my face to the warmth of the sun and God smiled on me. I smiled back. I ate lunch at my favorite pizza restaurant with my family, listening to my kids banter as I danced in my seat to 1980’s Bon Jovi.

Today was a really good day.

American flags on front porches, bowed and flipped in the breeze as I drove by, my hand hanging out the window, rising and falling against the wind. They seemed to have come alive, too. Whipped up into a cheer. Praise God, the nightmare is ending!! Let the bad relationship detox begin!! Dye your hair, cut your bangs, buy the skinny jeans, wear the extra chunky gaudy necklace, pull out that 1990’s mix tape and jam out, because this is it. We are kicking him to the curb. We are changing the locks. We are singing Gloria Gaynor’s, I Will Survive:

Go on now, go, walk out the door
Just turn around now
‘Cause you’re not welcome anymore
Weren’t you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye?
You think I’d crumble?
You think I’d lay down and die?Oh no, not I, I will survive
Oh, as long as I know how to love, I know I’ll stay alive

Bye Felicia.

I pulled out my Biden/Harris coffee cup that I got for donating to the campaign and had the most delicious cup of black tea today. I refused to use the cup until the winner was announced for fear that I would jinx the results.

Over the last 4 years, there were moments of absolute great despair, I wondered how God loving people could ever support such a horrible human being. I tossed and turned, I lost sleep, l lost friends, I said more curse words than I care to admit, and if I were honest and truthfully donated to our family swear jar, I would have been able to send my kids to college quite easily. I wrote blogs galore for my friends at the Shinbone Star. I started a very strange side hustle of creating and selling creepy dolls that are inspired by my angst. I protested. I met amazing people along the way. I hid. I cried. I despaired. I prayed. A lot. I felt the spirit within me not only stir, but rage. I felt as if I were in the battle of the ages for the very soul of our great country. The most wonderful part, though, is that I never felt alone. I felt overwhelmed and maybe outnumbered, but never alone. My God, my faith, my friends, my righteous indignation kept me company.

Look at what can happen when we all come together to fight for the common good. Miracles can happen. Tyranny ends. People are free. The American dream lives again.

Today was a really good day. I plan to finish this glass of wine (Oh did I mention the delicious glass of red wine beside me?), I plan to finish this blog. I will tuck my children into bed, I will read them passages from the Hobbit, then crawl into bed with my lovely like-minded husband and sleep the sleep of someone completely secure and free. I imagine that tonight will be the best sleep I have had in many years. Too many years. Rest well, friends from the US and all over the world. Freedom reigns tonight.

Celebrate. Enjoy the victory. Rest up and be ready because the battle never really ends.

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First Do No Harm

A gentle reminder, on occasion I moonlight for the Shinbone Star, the best little political blog on the world. I joined the mostly disgruntled mostly retired journalists and editors about 4 years ago when all hell broke loose in America. This is my recent blog post for them. Enjoy. Better yet, get pissed and vote accordingly.

EDITOR’S NOTE: The staff doctor here at The Shinbone Star is a little a little ticked off about the man at the top. No, not about Dutton Peabody, …

First Do No Harm
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After Life

I think I have an unhealthy obsession with death. It is not clear to me when this started. I think I let it out of my subconscious 4 years ago after the sudden death of my mom. There was something about her eyes as they turned from blue to gray that changed me. Even as I type this, I can barely express what I saw or how I felt. It is as if my breath catches in my chest. I can’t go there. I just can’t. I tried so hard to save her. 

My work is an expression of my obsession. My enemy is death. For myself and my patients. As much as it is within my power, I fight her. Yes, death is a woman to me. She is the woman who’s eyes turned to gray on that night that was burned into my soul, she is the one that took my mother’s blue eyes away.

People used to tell me all the time when I was little that I looked just like my mother, as I age I can see it for myself. There is this way that her neck kind of wrinkled at the edges. Mine is doing that, too. When I look in the mirror, my eyes are the same blue as hers. I stare at them too long. There are moments that I imagine them graying at the edges and I quickly turn my head. I didn’t just see that. It was just my imagination. I take a deep breath just to make sure I still can. 

Most days, I am just fine. I am so very happy. I enjoy my work, my husband, my children, my life. I laugh. I hardly ever cry, but that was not always the case. After her passing, I wasn’t good at all. I wasn’t even sure that I could continue with my work. How could I be a doctor if I couldn’t even save my own mother? It was irrational. I know that now. I went to therapy. I wanted someone to tell me that I was right to leave the profession. She didn’t. She told me I was exactly where I should be. I went to a career counselor. She told me the same thing. 

You should just go be a doctor. 

So I did.

Except, I kept trying to find a way to explore my feelings about death. I took an art class; it was one of those that are offered through the local community college, typically filled with senior citizens and stay at home moms. I learned to paint. I had no idea that I could. I tried to paint a picture of my mom, but it was too soon, I just couldn’t get her eyes right, so it sits unfinished behind a bookshelf. Then I discovered dolls.

My canvas became discarded dolls. I completely disassembled them. Took off their clothes, ripped off their hair, poked out their eyes, removed their heads and I started over. I remade them. I reimagined them. I make their hair, their clothes, I paint their faces, and I even make their eyes. I tell their stories. I save them. 

Of course this is crazy. I know it, but it gives me endless joy and these dolls are saving me, too.  For the past 2 years, I have been selling my creepy dolls at oddities expos and on Etsy. I’ve lost count how many dolls I’ve sold. Probably close to one hundred. Somehow, I think other people get it. They see the beauty in the darkness because my dolls are dark. I’m not afraid. My dolls are showing me that death is not the end. My faith tells me that, too. I see my creepy dolls as hopeful. They have survived something bad, just like me. 

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Postcards from the Edge

The news cycle can be overwhelming. The onslaught of conspiracy theories, half truths, and misinformation that comes from social media and not so respectable news sources is a never ending battle. Who do you trust? Who is trying to manipulate? Every day is another issue with the current US president and his cronies. The latest is manipulation of the USPS to negatively effect mail in voting. Is this even for real? Or is this just another way to gain clicks on another bogus headline? With some investigation, I discovered that it is indeed real.

It didn’t take a genius to figure this out, since our fearless leader is quoted as saying, “They want $25 billion, billion, for the Post Office. Now they need that money in order to make the Post Office work so it can take all of these millions and millions of ballots. But if they don’t get those two items that means you can’t have universal mail-in voting because you they’re not equipped to have it.”

For some strange reason, this was my last straw.

I have not been a fan of our current administration from the beginning. I participated in the Women’s March in 2017, have written posts for my favorite political blog, called and written to my Senators over issues that have concerned me, marched in a Black Lives Matter protest, donated to causes that I support and generally remain a vigilant, aware citizen.

The perfect storm of a pandemic and an attack on our mail system right before a major election that would affect our right to vote??? That shit put me over the edge. What does one do when they are pushed over the edge? Freak out, rant on FB, punch a hole in the wall, get drunk?

Nope, not me. I’m more punk rock than that.

I brought a shit ton of postcards, addressed them to the White House and every day I write one postcard and mail it.

It is strangely therapeutic. I have a little notebook where I jot down things I want to say. Some are Bible verses, quotes from famous people about leadership and integrity, thoughts about the way the pandemic has been handled, etc. Sometimes, when I am feeling especially punk rock, I’ll mail 2 postcards. Take that you tyrannical oligarch in the White House! This is my form of anarchy. Quiet, small, but fierce, just like Shakespeare said, “Though she be but little she is fierce.”

Or rather in the words of the great Sex Pistols:

I wanna be Anarchy
And I wanna be Anarchy
(Oh what a name)
And I wanna be anarchist
I get pissed, destroy! 

I am especially careful, however, not to be disrespectful, use colorful language or make threats. This is not my intention. I am certainly not interested in any Secret Service visiting my house. I am also not interested in seeing harm come to anyone or intimidate someone. I just want to speak MY truth. THE truth. Hold our administration accountable. Push back against what I see as a culture of half truths, misinformation, and deceit. I figure my little postcards help fund the post office. If they get piled up somewhere and never find their destination, it really doesn’t matter. I put it out there and that’s what really counts.

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It’s Alive

In case you were wondering, I survived the coronavirus and so did my husband and kids. It’s been over a month since our collective illnesses and everyone is back to normal. To be clear, it started with me. A few days later, my husband felt the familiar body aches, fatigue, and low grade fever. Then our oldest child started to complain of a sore throat. The youngest never had any symptoms. As each of us fell to the virus, we donned masks in the house trying to keep the next one from getting it. The youngest may have had it and been asymptomatic, I don’t know, I didn’t have her tested. The test is invasive enough that I didn’t want to make my kids have it before they had to and since the youngest was asymptomatic, I never bothered. We all hunkered down for 2 weeks and road out the internal storm of COVID 19 together.

As I recall those days, I remember an overwhelming fatigue. I had little energy for doing anything, including eating. I lost 7 pounds. Not an overwhelming amount, but I’m only 5 foot tall and on my frame, it was significant. I’ve definitely gained it all back. Once my sense of smell and taste returned, I was famished. I normally run 3-4 miles 4 days a week and I barely had the energy or breath to walk to my kitchen. The shortness of breath and fatigue were significant for me and it lasted for about 10 days. I had to be put on Prednisone because at around day 7, I developed wheezing and worsening shortness of breath. After a few days, these symptoms improved.

The hardest part during that time was listening to any news about the virus, death tolls, hospital rates, people refusing to comply with mask mandates, it was all too much and absolutely made the panic intensify. None of us know exactly how our bodies will react and with more than half of my little family sick, I couldn’t let my mind wander to the horrific possibilities. I reminded myself that most people survive, most do just fine, but some don’t. All the while our family was fighting the virus, one of my dear friends was transferred to the ICU minutes away from intubation. She wasn’t winning her fight and that realization hung over all of my COVID ridden days. I was only a few days behind her, was she my future, too?

I thought about writing during those times, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I just needed to focus on getting better, taking care of my family, and praying for my friend. I just needed to get to the other side. I was barely keeping my head above water and every bit of energy was necessary to swim to the shore. I eventually made it. My friend eventually made it, too. She slowly recovered and never had to be intubated. My husband and son, thankfully, had mild symptoms and recovered quickly.

There is a strange peace now that we have been through our own versions of illness. I still wear a mask everywhere I go, still use hand sanitizer, wash my hands and generally limit my trips to stores, but I feel relieved. I know that we have at least some immunity and the worst is behind us. We survived. My friend survived. In order to ensure that others have the same fighting chance, we must remain vigilant. Wear the masks, take the precautions, stop the spread of COVID 19 to others.

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The Results are in!


This is not a cat, obviously. They would never put up with me wrapping a blanket around them, but our dog has no shame.

The tension was something akin to a gender reveal party or maybe more like a walk to the gallows. I kept checking my patient portal for my test results. I was becoming obsessive with temperature checks. My temperature never rose above 99. I hadn’t even taken a Tylenol. I was convinced I was being paranoid, that my mind was inventing the symptoms in my body. I was somehow, crazily, manifesting the achiness in my knees and ankles, the deep down-to-my-bones fatigue. The reason I kept checking my temperature was because I “felt” hot, but the fever never seemed to materialize.

So without further ado, I suppose I should let the “Shrodinger’s cat” out of the bag…

(you can find my previous post to which I am shamelessly referring to at Schrodinger’s COVID)

My test came back positive.

Cue all the typical gasps and sympathies. Go ahead, get it out of your systems because we need to talk. Ready?

I have worn the mask, washed my hands, been as diligent as humanly possible and this little fucker snuck in. I let my guard down somewhere, but if I try to discover the exact moment, I will drive myself crazy. The truth is, and as my dear husband said to me after I told him my test results, it’s just a matter of time. We are both in healthcare. The daily infection rates are rising. Restaurants and stores are opening up. People are getting out and this shit is spreading. Despite the feeling that a COVID infection is inevitable, we have to keep up our diligence. Hell, I’m wearing a mask in my own house now so I limit its spread to my family. We can not let our guards down, not even for a second.

The worst part is thinking that somehow I am weaponized. This virus has made me complicit in its death march. My every breath, in the right (or wrong) circumstance, could be lethal. Go ahead and make a joke, my breath could be lethal in any circumstance (LOL). I am not opposed to laughing in the face of death. In fact, in many medical circles, laughter is the best medicine, and with this virus, I have little else to throw at it.

So far my symptoms have been mild. Am I one of the lucky ones that will get through this unscathed? Or will the raging fever, hacking cough and gasps for breath follow in the days ahead? After reading many accounts on the internet of the progression of COVID 19 infections, I said this to my nurse when I called her to tell her the lovely news, and she said, “just like we tell our patients, I’m going to tell you, stay off the internet!”

I wrestled with keeping my results secret, as if that is possible, unlike other illnesses that just belong to the person that is afflicted, it seems COVID 19 belongs to the world. I figured once the proverbial cat was out of the bag, everyone would know anyway, so I might as well be the one to tell my story.

It is 1 am, I am alone in my bedroom because my husband moved to one of the kids rooms (I made him), and I was tossing and turning, thinking about all that a positive test means. It means I let my guard down. It means my family could be at risk. It means the symptoms could escalate. It means my family, colleagues, and patients will look at me differently. There will be a hesitation. I wasn’t able to keep myself well, how can I keep others well? It means I’m not perfect. It means I’ve got to rely on God to get me through, because, in all honesty, I’ve got nothing that I can do to make a difference.

I checked my temperature again. 98. The slightest tickle of a cough. I have asthma, so I keep taking deep breaths to make sure I can, that there is no wheezing or tightness in my chest. I feel vulnerable. Alone, but hopeful. Because I have been anticipating my results all day, I have been distracted from what the days anniversary was. In many ways, I am glad that my mom did not have to witness the last 4 years, to have to be part of  this pandemic. She would not have fared well. What irony to find out my results on the anniversary of her passing. Perhaps a good omen? Mom if you are watching, I love you, but I’m not quite ready to see you again….


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Schrodinger’s COVID

IMG_7241Tomorrow is the 4 year anniversary of my mother’s passing and today I sit here awaiting the results of my COVID 19 test. I’m not sure that the two things have anything in common, probably just mere coincidence. It is a strange feeling, the not knowing. I am both negative and positive for COVID 19 at this very minute, like a modern day Shrodinger’s cat. I have to quarantine as if I have it. I keep searching my body for any changes to suggest I’ll be dead soon. I promise, I am exaggerating about the death part. I don’t feel too bad right now.

I’ve had about 3 cups of strong tea with honey since this morning. I’m lying in bed next to my best pal, Jackson (our dog). Resting. The kids are avoiding me “like the plague.”

I woke this morning with sore muscles and joints, congestion and a minor cough. I have a headache, chills, and I just feel really tired. I tried to brush it off, but I would be doing a disservice to my patients and colleagues if I ignored my symptoms and tried to keep working, so I asked to be tested. I cancelled my clinic, drove home, and now I wait.

I know I let my guard down, although I can say with 100% honesty that I have always worn a mask at work and when in public. I make my kids do it, too. When we get back in the car from a store, I make everyone use hand sanitizer. We have ventured out, though. We have had meals at restaurants and gone to our favorite junk stores. If I have the virus, could that be how I got it? It really doesn’t make sense to try to figure it out, for all I know, I’ve just got another “bug” and not THE “bug.”  I think I’m just being paranoid because I have known at least 2 deaths in the past few days and many more infected.

I called my dad to tell him that I was tested today. We haven’t seen each other in about 2 weeks. We did visit him around Father’s Day. When I told him that I was waiting on the results, he was upset. I kept telling him, I’m just getting tested, I’m not positive yet. He told me, “It just really pisses me off!” I wonder if he realizes what tomorrow is. I’m sure he does. I better remember to call and check on him.

My dad and I have talked a lot about the national response to the pandemic, or lack thereof. He’s been worried about me in healthcare and my exposures at work. I’ve been worried about bringing illness home to him or my family. I wash my hands, wear my gloves, and my surgical mask. The same mask all day. We have both been angered by the lack of consideration for those in the community that are most vulnerable to the virus, like my dad. We have talked about the concept of every state for themselves, every man/woman/child for themselves all in the name of freedom, the freedom to ignore a deadly virus.

I’m kind of pissed off, too. I fell like maybe I failed somehow. I just wasn’t careful enough. I’m pissed that maybe someone was careless and went out without protection or were knowingly infected. I’m pissed that people aren’t taking this thing seriously. I’m pissed that I know people who have died. I’m pissed that I have to sit here and wait. My results probably won’t be back for 48 hours and until then I’m just going to have to be pissed off and wait in that in between place where I’m positive and negative at the same time.

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