Even as I type this, I can scarcely believe it’s true, but - I’ve caught COVID twice, in 21 days.
To say that I feel hard done by is an understatement. I am double vaccinated and I tested positive the first time, smack bang before the holidays, in the most horribly perfect little window that would ensure I spent both Christmas and New Year’s isolating.
When I was eventually discharged by NSW Health after 13 days at home, I was told that I’d had the Delta strain, and assured that my sense of taste and smell would return soon. Losing both had its ups and downs.
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Being unable to enjoy the flavour of foods had made life seem temporarily futile, but my dog happily and comfortably snoozed on my pillow every night - a rare luxury, permissible only by the fact I was no longer phased by the pervasive stench of his breath.
Delta, whilst rough, had been substantially less shit than I had expected. I had cracking fevers, a bastard headache, chills, fatigue and the overarching feeling that this is what it must be like to get hit by a truck. I had no appetite, slept entire days away - but at no point did I feel like I may end up in hospital fighting for my life. Go, vaccines!
I’d love to say I then had a week of relative normalcy before being struck once more, but honestly? Though ‘recovered’ for the most part, the lingering tiredness and heavy brain fog were no f***ing joke.
I finally managed one skimpy little night out, where I pranced all over town drinking margies, shortsightedly declaring that my recent production of antibodies rendered me damn near invincible. At one point I distinctly recall even going as far as to declare: "LOL! You can’t catch it twice!"
And that there, my loves, is the very definition of ‘famous last words’, because as it would happen - little more than three days later - Omicron would come along, ready to f**k up my hot girl summer.