It’s been a while since I posted on my health blog, but with everything going on lately. Well. I needed it.

My experience with Covid itself wasn’t bad. Or at least, I thought it wasn’t bad. My teammates at work at the time would disagree. But it’s all relative. In comparison to my pre-celiac diagnosis days, when I got bronchitis yearly, and pneumonia every couple years… it wasn’t bad. (And compared to the nightmare stories on the news, it definitely wasn’t bad.)

I could actually lie down to sleep. Didn’t have to sleep sitting up. Didn’t need a nebulizer. Tessalon perls worked to suppress my cough. It certainly never got to the point where I had to even contemplate hospitalization. It was manageable. Manageable enough that I justified staying home and not going for testing.

I first got sick just before testing became widely available where I’m living. I was sick for a few months, and I could have gone by the end of it. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to leave the house. I didn’t want to deal with strangers. I especially didn’t want to try dealing with medical staff here when I don’t speak the language.

So. I just stayed home. I took meds. I dug through my old supplies and found an old steroid inhaler. Which I used. I took lots of baths, where the steam helped. I used my cpap machine even while awake, because the humidifier was a godsend.

I managed.

And then I seemed to recover. No more coughing. No more congestion (well, no more than usual; I’m always congested). No more sore throat.

I thought I was getting better. And I was. Better than the acute phase anyway.

I figured it would be like any other time I needed to get back in shape. Push through the pain and build up strength. Except that’s not how it worked this time.

I took Finn to a dog park. Took an Uber to get there, even though it felt ridiculous. Due to construction, he dropped us off on the other side of the park. So we had to make our way across. And it was excruciating.

I needed to stop to catch my breath constantly. My lower back and legs were in agony. I thought it was just being out of shape. Back pain wasn’t new. Neither was leg pain. Admittedly, this was pretty extreme. But I was proud I made it. My Fitbit said I hit 5000 steps that day. Pre-Covid, that was my daily minimum. After Covid, that was awesome.

And then I ended up in bed for two weeks.

And it happened again. And again.

Walking to the pharmacy two blocks away became an odyssey. I had to stop at least four times in those two blocks. Two blocks. When before I got sick, Finn and I were walking seven miles at least once a week.

I didn’t think it was long Covid. We were only beginning to hear whispers long Covid was even a thing. I thought I’d just gotten really out of shape being bedridden for three months. And I’d gained weight during that time, so of course I was more out of breath.

I don’t remember who suggested it. Probably Simran. She became certain I’d had Covid, even though I never got tested. My manager at work had thought so all along. My parents thought so, too. And… my dad is a doctor. Retired now. But also unlikely to believe I had an illness without concrete proof. I had to get both blood tests and an intestinal biopsy before he accepted I had Celiac disease. So. I slowly came to accept it. Not that denying it would do mr any good.

And now I’m trying to get my life in some semblance of order while managing the symptoms. My apartment is a disaster. I don’t cook becaude i just dont have the spoons for the cleanup. Heh. I’ve actually literally run out of spoons; I can find about two at any given time.