I could not wake up. I didn't have my phone. The author writes that he had a migraines that was wrapped around his ears and head. In this photo, Maria Korneeva is shown.
The rheumatologist told me that I didn't meet the criteria for the disease. There are many blood tests that point to a young woman.
Something was set ablaze by her words. Something that I had dulled over the course of two months of doctor's office visits.
I once ran 50 miles a week. I can't walk two blocks anymore. Where are you going to get good health? The doctor exhaled. We will repeat the tests when we return in five months.
I took inventory after closing the window. There was a wooden shelf behind me filled with books and essays. Stacks of glassware are below them. The plant was bright from the sun and cared for. I was wondering if I should have chosen a darker corner. Was it the case that you didn't use the mascara? I wonder if my hair was left unwashed. I wanted my skin to hold some evidence of reality. I imagined my cheeks were covered in skin rash. My brown hair is starting to fall apart. I whispered to the empty apartment to call me healthy again. I fell back to sleep.
That's it.
I was a graduate student in journalism at the time. I taught an undergrad writing course for six weeks. I would meet friends for happy hours at the park. My life was moving toward something else. I wouldn't make it to my destination on time if I didn't fulfill the steps in the assembly line.
I thrived in the fast paced world. I enjoyed waking up before the sun and running through the park. I felt Brooklyn's unique energy drifting through the air and fell asleep with sore muscles and heavy eyes. I didn't plan on slowing down.
At the end of March I felt slower. There was something off. The symptoms, like early-spring allergies, felt barely distinguishable. I took a quick test. It wasn't positive.
The symptoms went away in a couple of days. I traveled to Manhattan on the train and ran hill repeats in the park. My sore throat and headaches came back after my roommate tested positive for carbon dioxide. This is where the majority of people begin and end their journey. Two lines are displayed on a rapid test in anInstagram story. They are isolated for a short period of time. A person brings soup. They go back to work and live normally. It had just begun for me. My roommate and I both got vaccinations. All of the tests I took were negative.
That's it.
I woke up from a dream one week later. I could not wake up. I didn't have my phone. It was like a baby koala as it wrapped its limbs around my ears and head.
A week passed. Next one. A lot. The mornings were the same. Advil and Motrin were in my mouth. The Pedialyte was dipped. There are bananas in this picture. I liked yogurt when I was able to stomach it. The legs that had run 30 miles in one day could not walk two blocks. I wish the sun wouldn't shine. My sight was blurry. My brain went quiet. My head was floating in an alternate universe. How did I feel about this? It seems like brain fog isn't enough. It's not enough for this all-Consuming haze.
I stopped accepting work from other people. I taught on the train a couple of times a week. I grabbed a tree or light post as I walked to the station. I would return to walking when I felt better. I could fake it in front of the class, but the fog in my brain made it hard to remember. I would be left with my students staring at me and my stutter. I would replace the word "things" with "movement" instead of "rapidity" again. The class would come to a close. There was relief. The breathing then. Feel the ground under my feet. My hands and feet feel numb. Then sitting on a bench in the west village. I kept my eyes closed until I felt better. I only got eight hours of sleep every night. It was not enough for me to sleep for 12 hours.
After three weeks, I woke up feeling like a different person. It was possible to roll out of bed and walk around the apartment in no time at all. A person that wanted to run most of the time. I put on my shoes and entered the state that had always felt right for me. It wasn't normal. This time, not. My legs were weak and leaded at the same time. I was shuffled at a slower pace than I've ever experienced. I stopped fighting after 20 minutes.
A favorite running spot for the author before she became sick is the Prospect Park loop, which is located by Brooklyn's Grand Army Plaza. The photo is courtesy of Emma.
I sat at my desk and tried to work, but my heart kept beating and I couldn't comprehend what I was seeing. This was the only thing I knew about it.
A technician took my pulse in the emergency room. A doctor ordered an x-ray. She reported that everything was normal when she entered my room.
She leaned forward until she could see that I felt awful. You look great. I licked my lips. It moved in a thank you formation that was impossible for me to write.
I stumbled home and had a hospital bracelet on. I crouched down on the sidewalk every block. I would close my eyes there.
That's it.
My doctor did a lot of tests on me, including a check of my vitamins and a check of my white and red blood cells. It's all normal. It's a good idea to be healthy. I had a high COVID count, but only from the spikeprotein, which is indistinguishable from vaccine and infections. I couldn't shake the fact that this illness was going on for a long time. I was a healthy 26 year old woman when I was exposed to COVID and developed a variety of symptoms. It's possible it's coincidence. My doctor suggested that we treat this as an undiscovered illness since he couldn't prove a link to COVID. It took months of visits to doctor's offices to get the results.
To be entrenched in the medical system, you have to watch yourself fragment. I was a body of blood and flesh, with thoughts and sensations. I was carrying a lot of blood. There are a lot of blood vessels. There is a container of urine Which bicep? Right or left? The left side of the picture. I would like to use needles. Is it okay with blood? Yes. There is a tourniquet on the arm. The sensation in the crook was wet. A small blood clot. Is you okay? The technician had a surprise for me. I moved my head to the right. I only realized that I had been looking straight ahead when I looked back. The technician was not working. A blob of matter is Barney- purple scrubs. It's okay. It's okay. I said that it was not fine. I meant it wasn't ok. I've had four rounds of testing in the last four weeks. I'm being asked if needles scare me.
There was a person with a neurological condition. Amatologist. I have a heart monitor. The electrodes on my brain are stuck to my body. A technician took an image of my brain while I lay in an magnetic resonance device. An image of my spine was taken by another person. A woman with a Long Island accent took pictures of my heart at a doctor's office. I sat in a chair and a man stuck something to my head. It's all normal. It's all good.
I sent my doctor a message after two months. Do you believe this could be a disease? I didn't feel my feet or arm anymore. On the worst days, I felt like I had a terrible flu and someone had put a tab under my tongue while I was sleeping.
Some people with negative tests were diagnosed with a disease. My doctor said he didn't think I had the disease. I had to book an appointment with a doctor. I was prescribed a round of doxycycline and Malarone by him, but he wasn't sure about the diagnosis. I didn't feel any better after six weeks.
That's it.
When I was a child, I liked stories where the protagonists went on journeys and met new people. This appears to be a trend in storybooks. The White Rabbit goes down a hole to get to the other animals. A baby bird leaves the nest in search of his mother and finds a rooster, dog, car, and airplane. I was beside my mother and sister at bed time. The fast-speaking rabbit, the terse and angry caterpillar and my mother's voice would change in different ways.
I imagined my doctors as caricatures of themselves. The sonogram technician spoke with gentle concern, waves of care crashing over me as he spoke, while the doctor wore thick glasses and mumbled his words. The sting of this mysterious illness may have been lessened by the thought of doctors as illustrations in a storybook.
I rode the subway to a doctor's office and the train to the next station. The window was open for a follow up. My legs were weak as I walked to the lab for the test. The characters said it was normal. When the lab tests came back normal. I had not felt so powerless since I was a child. I had never felt older.
That's it.
I stayed with my parents for three months after I got sick. I sought a second opinion from a doctor at the hospital. All my test results were reviewed by him. He said that you fit the profile of his long- COVID patients. All of your symptoms and timelines point to post-COV. I didn't have any test evidence. I didn't get a positive result. I only had a high count from the spikeProtein. Is long evidence proven? It is not possible to say yes. Was it possible that I had a long-term illness? I was exposed to carbon dioxide at the same time. No, also.
It felt like a statistical game when I was diagnosed. It's likely that my number was never called when the music stopped. I wanted to hear other people's stories. In early June, science journalist Melinda Wenner Moyer wrote that her daughter, son and husband all had symptoms of carbon dioxide. The family took COVID tests every day for seven days, but only one child tested positive. It is possible for a person with a vaccine to catch COVID-19 but for their immune system to be able to fight it. I was buried by a heavy blanket since March. The corner had begun to unfold. I was there, even so slightly.
I have set up an alert on the internet for "long COVID" and "long COVID treatment." The Body Politic support group is led by a patient. I followed several social media sites. I joined more than one long-COVID group. I lurked in the comments section, taking pictures of any stories that looked similar to my own. Some patients had been exposed to the virus and never tested, but still developed long-COVID symptoms. I was more than just a single storybook character in a fantasy world.
That's it.
My guess is that there are many people with long COVID who don't have enough evidence to get care. This is not their story. The facts of my story are that I'm 26 years old and white. I am able to work from home. Good health insurance is something I have. I have friends who keep an eye on me. Without my family, I wouldn't have been able to afford the care I needed. I saw six doctors, underwent hundreds of tests, and paid thousands of dollars out-of-network before getting a diagnosis. Without a positive COVID test, I don't fit the criteria for most medical trials. Exhaustive research, back-and-forth calls with doctor's offices, my student health center and my insurance company are some of the things that need to be done to build a team of trusted practitioners. People don't have the money to take these steps.
There are higher instances of medical gaslighting and delayed diagnosis for women and non-binary people. It's also true for low-income, trans, Black and Hispanic women. These are the groups that don't have the resources to pay for treatment. I wonder what the other stories have to say about mine. What words have been used to dismiss a doctor? How many jobs have been lost? There are many mental health conditions. People who can't access adequate care have turned to unsafe exploratory treatments. My guess is that many people have similar stories and yet their paths lead to more difficult peaks.
My story should not be seen as a critique of any doctor. I'm thankful for the doctors who helped me. I owe my health to modern-day medicine. I'm curious about the limits of the medical system when it comes to invisible illness, what it means to look like a young, healthy woman, but to feel unwell.
That's it.
Good days aren't currently available. I wake up with a throbbing head, the right side of my body is numb, and I walk slowly around the block. I can't shake the thought that something is not right in my head. There is no known mechanism for this new virus. It's a heavy armor and it's clever. It has a blade. My sister cried when I called in the dark. I think there is something alien inside my brain. No one will help me, there's something wrong with me. When I wake up, my brain throbbing, exhausted but unable to sleep, I will write furiously in a notebook. I'm going to look for the words to say this. I don't know what to say to convey this. I will never succeed again.
There are times when I feel better for a day or two. I don't want to see these days as anything more than what they are. They aren't predictions. I don't know if this will last or if it will go away. I have begun to relax. There was a slow breakfast. When the sun is low in the morning, I might sit outside and read. I stand to feel the tiles under my feet. Allow the dizziness to go away. I look at it. Coffee grounds. It took hours to wake up. Mornings didn't have a migraines. Blocks with legs. This slower life is not something that l want to give up. It's necessary. One day, I might be able to exit this tunnel. One day, I will return to the speed that pulls me on the other side.
She is a writer and a journalist. Outside, Runner's World and Women's Running have all featured her journalism. She has received honors from two organizations. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, where she is finishing her MFA in nonfiction writing.
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