The Worst of It

My first Covid symptoms appeared on Wednesday, August 4th, 2021. After 2 negative PCR tests, I got officially diagnosed, through a chest scan, the following Tuesday. That day the virus had attacked 10% of the lung. By Sunday, it was 70%; an ambulance took to the ER. I stayed 12 days in the ICU, 15 in the hospital in total. My lungs burst; I have 80% damage in one, 20% in the other. The air got trapped under the skin, causing swelling in the neck and face. Recovery is estimated to take between weeks and months. But it's good to be back home, even if on oxygen.

Living without perfume,

That wasn't the worst of it.

It wasn't coughing while your nose splattered blood,

Nor having to eliminate in a bed as someone watched.

It wasn't the tubes sticking out of you as you tried to sleep,

Nor was it the moving bruise of the ever-shifting IV.

It wasn't the isolation of the gray walls, the viewless window, and sleepless nights,

Nor was it trying to assure your mother as you wanted to cry.

It wasn't the bloated face that greeted you with a scare in the mirror,

Nor the burst lungs, and the air trapped under the skin.

It wasn't the exorbitant bills of a country falling apart,

Nor was it getting out to a room without AC in the midst of collapse.

It wasn't realizing that your father cared more about his suffering than yours,

Nor was it realizing that you cared about yours more than his...

It was realizing that you still had your foot, and your brother, and somewhat your breath,

And you still didn't know what to make of them...