If you haven’t seen me around for a while, blame the ‘vid.
That’s what my son called it when he phoned me to ask: “How you doin’ against the ‘vid?”
I had no idea what he was talking about, so I asked him — three times — what he said: “Are you saying ‘vid’? What the hell is a ‘vid’?” Something in the corner of my mind hinted that it might be a term having to do with gambling, but I hadn’t placed any bets lately. Or at least I didn’t remember if I had.
It’s hard for an old man to admit his cluelessness. Bad hearing? Senior moment? That’s the kind of thing that can cost a man his respect. Or his car keys. Or a run for the presidency.
“The ‘vid,” he said. “COVID.”
Oh yeah. COVID. I had just tested positive a few days before, and leave it to his generation to find a way to abbreviate it, just in case I wouldn’t be around long enough for any extra syllables. I should have caught the reference, and I probably would have, but I blame the ‘vid.
This is my second bout with COVID despite regular vaccines, and although it isn’t hitting me any worse than a bad cold, it’s still not my favorite dance partner for the couple weeks that it will hang around. I have no fever or respiratory problems, and I can still taste and smell the world around me. Even the parts of the world best left unsensed.
But my body is ground zero for all the other greatest hits — aches and pains, headache, sneezing, coughing, brain fog, and an inability to stay awake past 9 p.m., followed by eleven-hour bouts of fitful sleep. Not to mention an inability to recognize a term like ‘vid’ when your kid tries to impress you with his uber-cool argot. Because when the virus burrows all the way down to the language centers in the brain, you know you’ve bought the farm.
If you asked me, I’d tell you that my appetite seems to be fine, but the bathroom scale tells me that I lost three pounds in the four days since my symptoms first showed up. Then again, I’ve swapped my evening dose of Irish whiskey for Mucinex since this all started, so maybe I’m just seeing the numbers on the scale more clearly.
I’m not sure where the ‘vid caught up with me, though there are plenty of prime suspects skulking in the incubation zone:
There was golf on Thursday morning, followed by beer and a chicken Philly sandwich at my favorite local bar. I won’t tell you the name of the place, because it’s quiet there, and when I’m drinking beer at 10:30 in the morning, I don’t want to share the bar with the kind of person who would drink beer in a bar at 10:30 in the morning. But I golfed alone, and the only other person at the bar that early in the day was Tammy, my favorite bartender. Probably didn’t catch it there.
On Friday I spent most of the day helping my buddy Bill with some chores at his house in Schaumburg. But it was only Bill and his wife Kathy there. They seemed fine, and we were outside the whole time, so probably not there — unless compost and canoes are COVID carriers.
Saturday seemed a likelier bet, because I spent a few hours with a friend at the farmer’s market in Woodstock. The park milled with people — many of them snotty-nosed kids chasing bubbles that were probably billed as “virus free,” but are they really?
Or maybe Sunday, where I sat with a friend at Jameson’s for a meal, where tables around us were crowded with folks chatting with words (and who knows what else) spewing from their chew-holes. And although the roast pork plate was delicious, didn’t I read somewhere that pigs can carry human diseases?
Or maybe it was Monday morning, when they made me sit in the crowded waiting room at the Subaru dealership in Elgin for an hour and a half before they told me (of course) that they couldn’t get my car fixed that day. They gave me a loaner, which may or may not have been disinfected since the last COVID snot-fountain drove it.
Anyway, by Tuesday evening my throat was under assault, and by Wednesday morning the viral troops had stormed my beaches. By Thursday morning, when my COVID testing kit proudly flashed the double line, the occupation was well under way deep into my hinterland. (Caution: Overdosing on Ukraine and Gaza news while sick at home may affect your metaphors.)
My first bout with COVID two years ago kept me positive (in that twisted testing sort of way, where a positive result is a negative outcome) for the better part of two weeks. So I had that to look forward to.
And so, with nothing else to do for the rest of August, I set about the task of saying goodbye to the world. I started by telling anybody with whom I had been in contact—Tammy, Bill and Kathy, Woodstock and Jamesons pals, Subaru service czars — that I may have infected them. Or they, me.
Potato, potahto.
And so, dear Planet Kerthlings, consider this my explanatory contact with you. If you haven’t seen me ‘round the ‘hood for the past couple of weeks, you can blame the ‘vid.
Fortunately, you’re probably safe, because the scientific community has found no evidence that you can get sick from reading the limping language-center words of a COVID-wracked columnist.
No matter how bad it’s wrote.
TR Kerth is the author of the book “Revenge of the Sardines.” Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com
