The path of the pathogen began for me on a mid-week day, building from an indefinable something to the familiar splitting headache along with fever and chills in the evening with disorientation.
How many times have I had the flu? A quick glance across the search engine DuckDuckGo estimates that children get the flu (not a mere cold) around every 2 years, dropping until the point where the average adult only picks up the flu once every five years.
That’s actually not a lot. The corona virus feels similar to a bad flu.
The headaches and fever were then joined by lethargy and excessive sleep which gave way to sleeplessness and no appetite, despite the feeling that the body should eat.
Pretty soon, the appetite built up, sleep normalized, the headache lessened and a feeling developed in the kidneys that reminded the human, I’m here, and a little uncomfortable.
Almost a week later, I have a runny nose, but that could actually be allergies.
I could still smell, and I never worried that this particular beastie would be the end of me. Not everyone else has been so fortunate though.
Prayer enjoyed something of a Renaissance. It just felt natural. Not for myself, but for my family whom I could infect, for those hospitalised, for those who have endured loss.
Another flu to add to the RNA strands making their way through my bloodstream. I got the sense that:
I’m praying to a God who listens;
I’m no longer a slave to fear, I am a child of God;
All the days ordained for me were written in His book, before one of them came to be.