At age 10, I was gangly and uncoordinated. I ran with the grace of a bull moose through mud and whiffed at pitches more often than not.
But, at dodgeball, I owned the sandlot. During recess, the school toughs lined up to take shots at me. They licked their chops at the taste of easy meat only to have their appetites quashed. Because, however slick their spin moves, however sticky their pivots and convincing their fakes, I dodged their bullets. They couldn’t even graze my shirt. When recess ended, the toughs stormed off muttering to themselves. They didn’t understand that their eyes betrayed them — every time.
Working the COVID unit at the VA hospital More than 50 years later, my dodging skills remained sharp. I ducked and shucked the virus as it tried to hitch its velcro spikes to my hospital gown or N-95 mask, then sneak a ride home on my fingers. No go, little buggers! I owned the ward at donning and doffing PPE. I followed both the virus’ spiny eyes and CDC guidelines. In the four-and-a-half years since, COVID missed me and missed me again.
Nee-ner! Nee-ner! Neeeeee-ner!
Then, a week ago last Friday, I blinked. And, COVID impaled me on its spikes. Since my diagnosis, I’ve holed up in my bedroom: welts from N-95 elastic bands burrowing into my cheeks, hands sweating inside latex gloves, HEPA air filter humming in the background.
My wife, Susan, keeps a safe distance. Our Boston terrier, Lilly, bounces between us unsettled that mommy and daddy aren’t sleeping together. Yet, Lilly adapts. She steers away from my duck-billed face and glues her haunches to my shin for hours on end. She’s been my canine equivalent of a cool compress. My constant through binge News shows and dreams of the day I’ll stop shedding.
I lost my dodgeball crown to COVID. But, in so doing, I’ve allowed myself to be touched in the places I need it most.