I don’t know exactly how I contracted Covid-19, but it was three days after my return from an annual industry event in March when I began feeling off. This was back in the days before the call for mask-wearing in public. Yet, I attempted to keep my distance during the event, declining handshakes and hugs, skipping all after-hours socializing, grabbing take out food each night to eat in my hotel room while writing, and watching reruns on TV. Even so, inescapably, there was the navigation through crowded airports, and on the flight itself, you couldn’t ignore the sounds of people coughing and sneezing around you.
During an evening walk around my neighborhood I noticed I was uncharacteristically short of breath, and the next day, while working at my dining room table during my self-imposed post-travel quarantine, my hands became so cold I had to put gloves on. Grabbing a thermometer, I logged a low-grade fever.
New York State had just set up a major drive-through Covid testing center near my home, so I called the Department of Health, explained I had recently traveled, gave my symptoms and my information, and was ordered to report there early the next morning, along with my oldest son who had also begun exhibiting symptoms.
While the drive through the early morning fog was surreal enough, the arrival at the testing facility was even more unsettling. The parking lot of a large park had been commandeered, with dozens of tents and trailers set up. A sign at the parkway exit ordered visitors to keep their car windows closed as masked National Guard members passed us along through a series of checkpoints, where my ID was tallied against lists of those with appointments. Paperwork, already printed out with our information, was held up to the car window for me to review and approve. It was then folded and stuck under the windshield wiper blade.
There were few cars there at that hour and we were waved forward into one of the drive-through testing tents. There, medical technicians in hazmat suits took the paperwork, instructed us to recline in our seats and roll down the window while they gave us “the brain tickle”. After 10 unpleasant seconds it was over, the windows were closed, and just outside the tent, there was a large sign with a phone number to call for the test results.
Within three days, I was contacted by my county health department informing me of the positive test results for myself and my son. I was told to assume everyone else in the household would have it as well. We were lucky in that our symptoms did not become life-threatening. My personal doctor told me to go immediately to an emergency room if I experienced difficulty breathing, but other than that, stay away. I had a persistent fever for 11 days, along with exhaustion, and my family members experienced other symptoms of varying intensity. We quarantined for nearly a month in total, and even now, eight months later, members of my family are still experiencing Covid after effects.