So, we had the long weekend. Which was great. By great, I mean it involved painting, because of course it did. We moved into this new house six months ago, and pre-move, my best line was “Oh, it’s great. Yeah, it needs nothing doing to it”. Hahahaha…yeah…turns out that when you by a house after having spent fifteen minutes in it (WHAT IS THAT??? I spend more time choosing shoes! And I hate shoes!), you tend to miss a few of the details. The details in this case include the fact that the freshly painted walls were apparently painted by a blind monkey on crack, that the ‘new’ carpet contained well hidden holes (actual holes), and that all the appliances that were included worked for a day and a half before needing to be replaced. Sigh. I love my house. I really, really do. She’s an old lady who hasn’t been particularly well cared for, and I adore the fact that I get to take over and bring her back to life. But my god, if I never see another can of paint it will be too soon.
This last year, what with the pandemic and moving house and homeschooling and long covid, has thrown me so far off my game, I can no longer SEE my game. So, I start each week with the plan that this week will involve ALL the work, that I will finally wrangle my multiple projects into sufficient order that I can get them off my desk. Sadly, long covid had other plans. What is particularly delightful about this bonkers virus is that you can be fine, absolutely fine. Right up until you’re not. I’ve been fine. And then Sunday night at 2am, I wasn’t. I mean, it’s fine. I’ve been far worse with this. Only now, a year later, you kind of want to be done with it. Apparently, I am not done with it.
It started with the choking. It’s a weird thing, but it happens each time, right before I go into a long covid slump. I start choking before I go to sleep, each night, predictable as clockwork. That’s my first clue. The second clue is the shaking, when I wake up in the morning and my hands vibrate. Those are my harbingers, trouble coming.
A long covid attack, for me, involves blinding headaches, a scratching at the back of my throat, bone weariness, and a burning pain in my chest that radiates through to my back. So this is my week, apparently. I am in my pyjamas, with my support golden retriever fighting for lap space against my laptop. And I am trying not to hold myself responsible for this, trying not to fail like I’m somehow failing for not being able to perform as I wish I could. I’m trying. Not quite there yet. I am, after all, a work in progress.
Emma Kavanagh 