3 Bags Full

I sat in the hall outside my therapist’s office waiting for a session to begin. A middle-aged woman and a masseuse stood nearby talking. The woman whinged, “We had a Viking cruise to the Mediterranean. We were supposed to stop in Israel, but now that won’t happen! Couldn’t Hamas have waited a couple of weeks before they attacked? Now the cruise line is going to reset the itinerary, but I don’t know if I’ll get a refund for that portion of the trip.” I gave silent thanks when the woman took her complaints behind a closed door.

The next day, I vaguely heard a rumbling garbage truck pull up in front followed by the muffled thumps of yard waste cans being emptied. An ear infection made me dizzy and tired, so I didn’t run out to haul the cans away from the road. When I retrieved them that evening, I found three bright blue bags of dog crap dumped in one of the cans. I tipped it up and deposited the crap bags at the curb. I didn’t want the contents fermenting at the bottom of a can meant to hold leaves, trimmed branches, and magnolia seed pods.

As I stood glaring down at the blue bags bulging at the seams, I plotted acts of revenge against dogwalkers who decide that others are responsible for dealing with their messes. None of the plans seemed practical. Most would have led to unpleasant confrontations.

Later that evening, I rounded up the kitchen and household garbage, took the bag to the curb, and put the dog crap into it. I dropped the bag into my regular garbage can. Now the doggie deposits could grow rudely aromatic among chicken bones, vegetable peelings, and a container full of yogurt gone bad.

My earache subsided over the next few days, but my throat started to feel scratchy. I spent a night coughing and choking in my sleep and couldn’t talk above a hoarse croak the next morning. I took a Covid test on Sunday and Monday to make sure that my recent infection hadn’t returned. They came up negative.

When I taught class on Monday, I sipped from a huge coffee-filled thermos to keep my throat clear. I managed to cover proportions and anatomy for portrait drawing but noticed that I had to work hard to remain kind and polite. I got brusque and blunt on a few occasions and shout-whispered a general apology at the end of class.

As I drove home, I realized that human decency, on my part at least, requires energy, patience, and persistence. When I run short, my attitude festers like three bright blue bags steaming at the bottom of a trash can.

A Bad Roommate

I couldn’t clear my throat, and my packed sinuses gave me a headache. I took a rapid antigen Covid test early the next day (4 a.m., couldn’t sleep anyway). It came up negative. Continued to feel worse with fatigue, body aches and a low-grade fever. I tried the test again the next day, and the T line turned an angry dark red. Positive.

Fifteen days later, I feel much better. I sound less like a cigar-smoking bullfrog. I sleep better at night and haven’t felt feverish in two weeks. I’m starting to cook, wash dishes, mow, and trim. The only symptom that lingers is fatigue.

This kind of energy shortage doesn’t feel normal. I don’t feel exhausted like I would after taking a long hike or working outside on a hot day in Florida. This feels like I’m driving uphill in the wrong gear. I’m in fourth but need to downshift into second or third. I can move forward, but the power is missing.

My stamina has improved somewhat over the last ten days. When I had to mow the lawn about two weeks ago, I slow-zombie cut it in two twenty-minute intervals spread over two days. Yesterday, I did the whole yard in forty minutes. No breaks. Afterward, I managed to run to a hardware store, work on the wooden awning I’ve been building for the studio door and cook a stir fry for supper. However, my dimmer switch turned down to half-power right after we ate. I trudged through washing dishes and putting a final layer of paint on the awning. When I sat down to spend time with Judy, I wanted instead to retreat to a quiet place where I could stare at a wall and perhaps fall asleep.

My daughter told me her Omicron version of Covid left her with a cough lasting three weeks. My brother’s Delta infection affected him for a month. I’ll hit the three-week mark this coming Tuesday and hope that I can return to normal by then. My mild dose hasn’t completely shut me down, but I’m beginning to feel like I’m living with a dead-beat roommate who steals and never cleans. I want to get the back rent and kick him to the curb.