Early & Alone #63: The Body is More a Haunted House than a Wonderland
Three weeks ago, I tested positive for Covid and joined the millions of Americans who have been infected. The CDC said nearly 60% of Americans had had Covid as of late April and that number has only increased—so in some ways it seemed inevitable. But after over two years of being lucky, of being cautious, of staying home and wearing masks and worrying, it felt terrible. The timing was particularly cruel in that I tested positive just two days before I was planning to drive to a lake house I had rented with friends for my 40th birthday, the kind of celebratory vacation I’d been wanting to organize for years and years.
Ultimately, I was lucky. My symptoms were relatively mild—it felt like a bad cold for a few days, but I wasn’t plagued by fatigue or fever or brain fog. By day 6, I felt well enough to join my friends at the house, wearing a mask and keeping my distance and being outdoors for the majority of the time. By day 9, I was testing negative. Thankfully, none of my friends got sick at the house.
But a funny thing started the same day I tested negative—a tingling in my right hand, in my pinky finger and along the side of my hand. Odd, and a little annoying, but probably nothing, I reasoned. But it didn’t go away. It hasn’t gone away—I’m on day 15 of the tingle as I write this. Except the tingling is now more of a numbness. When I write or type it’s like I have a weight on the side of my hand, like something is dragging it down.
Apparently, this has been shown to happen in Covid patients. It’s called peripheral neuropathy and can persist for months or even be permanent. I went to the doctor last week and he kindly explained that it was most likely Covid-related, given the timing, but if it didn’t let up in two weeks, I should go back for neurological tests to determine if it’s something more serious, like MS or Guillain-Barre syndrome, diseases where your immune system attacks your nerves.
All of this has made me feel a little bit like a character in a horror movie, one of the ones where they say “the call is coming from…INSIDE the house!!!” There is so much that can go wrong in our bodies and it’s impossible to know when or how it will happen. Though I wasn’t facing death with Covid, thanks to my vaccinations and overall health, it was a reminder that like Covid, death will eventually catch up to me. It will catch up to all of us. Rationally, we all know this. But it’s so easy to hide from that most basic fact in our day-to-day lives, caught up in the quotidian dramas of work and weather and worry. We are all mortal and temporary, fragile and vulnerable, no matter what kind of diet or exercise or meditation regimens we adopt.
It’s difficult, feeling at war with your body. I have never been totally connected to my body—never an athlete, always more of a brain. I’ve joked that I would like to be like Krang, the villain in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles that is just a brain walking around in a big muscular body.
Yesterday I worked out for the first time since my Covid diagnosis and the Peloton instructor talked about how important it is to connect with your body. I don’t disagree, but I find it extremely difficult to just be in my body most of the time. I’d rather be reading than running or hiking or doing yoga. Still, I know it’s good for me, and I sometimes even enjoy the sweaty exhaustion after an all-out HIIT ride, the pleasant soreness after dozens of squats and lunges.
Still, most of the time, I hate my body. I know it’s not cool to say that, that it flies in the face of the body positive movement I’m trying so hard to embrace. But if I’m being honest, I don’t like the way it looks and I don’t like the way it feels. I don’t like the ticking timebombs hidden inside, all the things that could go wrong at any time. I don’t like how it looks in a bathing suit or really anything these days. I don’t like how my ankle aches at weird times, a reminder that there’s dead bone in there, a piece of me already decayed and useless.
Listen, I know I’m lucky to be able-bodied. I don’t take that for granted. And I also don’t loathe my body 100% of the time. My inclination is to wrap this up in a pretty bow and say something like, “But I also know my body is strong and it does amazing things every day and I’m going to work to love it more!” But I guess that’s not the point I’m trying to make. I’m trying to write about what I’ve been grappling with lately, this idea of bodies as haunted houses, as terrible reminders of our fragility. I’ve been putting off writing this because it’s not pretty or poetic or lighthearted. I’ve been putting off writing much of anything, but that’s a different story—or at least another chapter.
Having a body is hard and I don’t think that is acknowledged enough. So give yourself grace if you’re feeling tired or achey or don’t want to work out or hate that picture of you or can’t lift that weight or are sick. Just existing sometimes is a horror show. But I guess that’s what makes the good parts better. And what makes it more important to try and make the best of what we have while we have it, because we don’t know what could happen.
Bright Spots
Fire Island, streaming on Hulu, is a gay retelling of Pride and Prejudice and it is perfect.
I’m a big fan of Emily St. John Mandel and her latest novel, Sea of Tranquility, didn’t disappoint. It’s about time travel and pandemics and the Moon and simulations and I loved it.
The Other Two on HBO Max made me laugh out loud every episode.
I devoured this article about divorce laws and murder in the late 19th century
This supercut of scenes from video stores made me real nostalgic for video stores
I bought these “easy pants” at the Gap outlet and can report that they are, in fact, easy and I love them.