This Spa Called Covid

Every morning I awoke to realize that Boris Johnson’s hairdresser had flown from London to “do” my hair in the night. If I were to have my own personal house-call hairdresser, I might have wished for someone different, but hey, he or she gives a consistent hay-bale look every time. And no hairbrush needed on my end. Hah!

 

For a few days I had special spa heat treatments. Not sure whether to liken fevers to a steam room or sauna. Really wiped me out though. Think of the bazillions of toxins released!

 

I must have landed in a MedSpa, because for the first two weeks, at least one Covid Response Team nurse called me daily. One day, three nurses and one doctor called. That was very special spa treatment, to be sure. They kept reminding me, however, to call 9-1-1 if my oxygen levels dipped. From what I know of ambulances, they are not like spas, so I didn’t call one.

 

Alarmed as I was seeing 75 unread text messages on my phone, I felt no guilt not responding to them. I couldn’t lift my head off the pillow—or read words for that matter. I had a little guilt, but not much, not picking up phone calls. I could say only a few words before gasping for breath, so the calling friend understood pretty quickly that’s all I could do.

 

My Covid Spa was so relaxing, I slept upwards of 20 hours a day. Notably missing, however, was a good massage. When I am reasonably sure a massage at a regular spa won’t send me back to Covid Spa, I will schedule one.

 

Taking my tongue out of my cheek for a moment, I will end on a grateful note. For concern and prayers of friends and family, for God’s advance (little did I know I’d need these things soon) provisions, and for the contentment of forced self-care-only days.