My COVID Thanksgiving

THANKSGIVING CAME EARLY FOR ME this year. It was a good thing, as it turned out.

Two weeks ago, my island neighbor The Mad Birder and his lovely wife, Carol, extended a kind invitation for a turkey dinner. The invite included my brother Doug, who was visiting from New Mexico.

M.B. and Carol had bought a turkey breast to take with them on a Thanksgiving Week camper-van tour of Vancouver Island. They realized belatedly that they couldn’t cross the Canadian border with poultry. So they popped the turkey in the oven and said “Come on over.” There were peas. There was gravy. It was delicious.

My actual Thanksgiving Day could be the subject of a new movie titled “HOME ALONE: Brian Catches the Crud.”

A little context: What worried me most about my travels to Greece and Turkey last month was that, like virtually everyone I know who’s come back from vacationing in Europe in the past two years, I would likely get off the plane in Seattle with COVID.

Living alone on a remote island has helped me avoid catching the lousy illness that has plagued the world the past four years. That was important to me, since my diabetes and my 67 years put me at higher risk. I’ve had more booster shots than I can count. After carefully masking up on the long plane rides and in crowded museums across Greece, I was proud of myself for making it back to Center Island with no cough, no congestion, no sore throat. My senses of smell and taste were intact and ready for another round of ouzo, perhaps with a pumpkin-latte chaser.

It took me barely four weeks of being back home in Western Washington to finally come down with COVID. Damn.

Not really sure where I picked it up, though I traveled last weekend from Anacortes to a funeral in Vancouver, Washington, with stops around Lynnwood, Thurston County, Centralia and several points in between. Masked sometimes, but not always.

Last Monday, my throat was sore. A friend down south had told me she’d tested positive the previous day. I did the home test, swabbing a half-mile up my nostrils, adding droplets to the little device, and waiting 15 minutes for the answer.

I’d done this at least a dozen times before. Negative, always. This time two lines appeared, not just one. It was the “positive” reading.

Not one to accept fate without a fight, I rummaged through my bathroom drawers and came up with another home test, from a different manufacturer. Swabbed, dropped, waited. Swore.

I had The Crud.

First thing, I messaged daughter Lillian to cancel plans for her and partner Chris to spend Thanksgiving with me at the Nuthatch. That was my biggest disappointment. Galley Cat and I hunkered down for the duration. I’d just brought home lots of groceries. Considering I’d had the latest COVID booster shortly before leaving on my October trip, I assumed my illness would be mild.

Yes and no.

By Tuesday, the sore throat was gone, but head-cold symptoms set in, with mild headache. I made sure to drink plenty of fluids. Discovered that my home thermometer was inoperable. By nightfall, however, I was sure I had a fever. My forehead felt warm while the rest of me was shivering. I donned extra layers and climbed into bed.

Beyond just jettisoning those extra fluids, my kidneys seemed to go on overdrive all night long. I was up every hour on the hour to empty my bladder. When finally I fell deeply asleep before dawn, my body fought the fever until it broke and I awakened awash in my own sweat. I had to change the bedding.

Wednesday morning, the headache had eased but the sore throat returned with a vengeance. By dinnertime I could barely swallow. Both ears ached. I couldn’t speak. That night, I barely slept, groaning and wincing with every sip of water that I swallowed. Did I have strep throat on top of COVID? I resolved to get to an E.R. on the mainland the next day.

But, oh, yes, I live on a remote island. I’m reliant on a water taxi. I texted an inquiry. Yes, they could get me to Anacortes. But it was Thanksgiving and they were knocking off early; no boats in the afternoon. I’d be marooned on the mainland.

I chose to gut it out till Friday.

I don’t remember much about Thanksgiving Day. I napped a lot. Sipped ice water to soothe the flaming throat. Made a fishburger for dinner, with every swallow a pain. Watched “Miracle on 34th Street.” Wished for a miracle on Center Island. It was about that time, as I gulped down a little carton of my favorite piña colada yogurt, that I realized that the lively pineapple and coconut flavors I love were…missing in action. The yogurt was white. It was creamy. It was flavorless. I had lost my senses of smell and taste. Aaargh. Another stupid COVID curse coming true.

Friday, securely masked and as isolated on the boat as I could get, I made my way to an Anacortes walk-in clinic. After checking in I had to wait outside in my car because, oh yeah, I had COVID.

Because of my painful throat, I didn’t think I’d be able to speak clearly, so I had typed up and printed a report of my symptoms and concerns. But by the time I saw a doctor, I could talk almost normally. She examined my ears and throat, saw no bacterial infection, and talked me out of a request for Paxlovid, the antiviral med given to many COVID victims.

“The thing is, you’re getting better!” the doc told me with a relieved sense of seeing something she hadn’t seen often enough.

She was right. It’s Sunday. I’m home now, almost through with the sore throat, the congestion. The Snot Factory is shutting down.

All is on the mend, and reports say most people get their senses back.

If not, and I go through Christmas without smelling a fairy-lighted fir, without sniffing a gingerbread man, without the aroma of chestnuts or an open fire — well, that would really stink.

But at least I lived to tell about it. Damned COVID.