This text was written as I learn to live with Long Covid and attempt to regain my creativity. All the posts and some more info can be found here.
I sit at my desk and work. The hours tick by and I have little time for rest but I take it anyway. I am getting better at pacing, at not losing myself in a task and exhausting my resources before the end of the day. I walk down to the kitchen and fill yet another pint glass full of water. I sit in the empty living room and watch the bird feeder. It doesn't matter if birds are around, I seek a quieter scene.
The days tick by and my health diary is coloured blue, the good colour. Red seeps in, tinting the end of every single day. By Thursday, I cannot keep my eyes open in front of the six o'clock Murder, She Wrote. I lie down, my head on my partner's lap and wait for the time to go to bed.
On Friday, I am okay, rested after a good night sleep. I have a busy day ahead of me so I laze in bed. I write in my journal for a little while. I read a book. My partner drives me to the Tesco at the end of our street so I can purchase some supplies for lunch. A friend is coming for the afternoon and I need to get on with the soup we are to eat. It's an easy soup. For the most part it takes care of itself and I can play a video game whilst the vegetables bake then boil in water with cheese.
This is the second time in a month that a friend visits me at home. I may not be able to go out but I can offer my home as a place to meet up. My friend arrives. We hug and talk and eat and play cards. By the time they leave, I feel content and drained. I have come to understand the physical toll of long covid on my body but the mental toll is still something I grapple with. How do I know what is too much when the same activity can both energise me and deplete me?
I am due to chat with more friends, this time online, in the evening. I wonder if I should cancel but I have not seen these friends for months. I dropped out of our last catch-up because my anxieties were too high. I decide to log in at the meeting time and duck out early if necessary. We start to chat, catch-up, share our creative projects, questions and ideas around it. I am excited. I jot down notes to return to later, sparks of creativity I have not felt in a long long time.
On Saturday, I am okay. I can feel fatigue swell but it is manageable. I take it easy. I rest in the garden with a Maigret story, read the last three chapters in the sun and symphony of lawn mowers. I drink tea. I play video games. I watch more TV without really paying attention to it. I keep an eye out for the birds. At night, I colour my diary blue and red. I rested. I was well and not well.
On Sunday, I ask my partner to drive me to the lake so I can swim. I have not been able to go swimming due to lack of energy for a couple of weeks and I keenly miss the water. My partner and I will depart for France in the midst of the following week and I do not want to let the gap between the water and me grow more than it already has.
I dip my toes in the lake, splash my skin with, and lunge myself forward. It is cold but not as cold as it used to. The board by the entrance proclaimed an almost balmy nine degrees. I decide I can swim more than one loop in this temperature. My body tingles and prickles but I do not feel the sense of urgency to get out. I swim. One lap, then another, then another. It is foolish and I know this. Nine degrees is not that warm and the heat of the sun on my face does nothing for the dropping temperature of my core. My legs ache in their familiar heaviness that refuses to shift. I do not need to add more fatigue, to add more pain. I swim anyway, too happy to let go of the embrace of cold water.
My body is blistering red when I exit, only my hands and feet, protected by neoprene, emerge ghostly white. I hurry to change and join my partner on a chair outside. We are caught in the wind. My body shivers. I drink my hot decaffeinated coffee and eat a breakfast of peanut butter and jam sandwich. The water laps lazily next to us. Eventually I stop shivering. Blue lingers on my lips.
Back home, I settle by the desk and follow the flow of creativity that has taken hold of me since Friday. I work and work and work and the hours tick by. I stop when I notice the headache grow behind my eyes, when I feel the clouds of wooziness obscure my mind. This too was too much but this too I struggle to let go, but I do.
It need to rest my mind and body. I sit down by the suitcase behind me and pack. I print train tickets and other needed bits of paperwork for the upcoming travel. I take a bath and close my eyes. Let this different water hold me for a while. The sun lights the salmon tils of the bathroom tangerine. I sink below the surface, let bubbles of air escape my mouth, and smile.