What’s in a name? Part One

Greetings, guys! Welcome to A Song of Zion, our weekly check-in and virtual minyan for Jews on Daily Kos. This is an open thread and we treat it as a safe space for Jews here. Non-Jews are welcome, but we ask that they listen more than speak. No bickering, please: if you want to fight, please get out. (H/T wasplover)

In early 2020, I was working two jobs—full-time at a bank and part-time at a grocery store. I had just been promoted at the bank and had recently won more regional sales awards than anyone else. I was doing well. I had a career, was engaged to the love of my life, and had lots of hobbies. After a difficult and traumatic adolescence, I had finally made it in my thirties. Oh—and I was really excited about the Democratic primary. I posted here all the time. I was donating money to my favorite candidates and had started volunteering for the Warren campaign after Kamala dropped out.

And then came Covid.

I follow the news closely. I was worried about Covid early on, before it was in the States. I knew a pandemic was possible in my lifetime, and this one looked bad. I anticipated eventual lockdowns and started stocking up on some necessities and masks in advance. I’ve been in the hospital before for pneumonia and bronchitis, so I wanted to take this thing seriously. The lockdown started in March 2020, and two days later I was sick. Damn. It wasn’t that bad at first, but after three days I was sicker than I’ve ever been in my life. At this point, the “sicker than I’ve ever been” part will sound very familiar to many readers. I even wrote two panicked posts here. I started keeping Shabbat for the first time in ten years because I needed a path to peace through terror.

I did fear breathing problems, but those turned out to be very mild. I also had no fever. What I did have was severe stomach upset and explosive diarrhea. The latter lasted over two months. And my stomach growled so loudly that it would wake me up in my sleep. Scary. And of course, crippling fatigue. It felt like gravity was stronger than before and my bed was sucking me in. I liken it to the feeling of being on a Gravitron ride – that’s the one that spins really fast and sucks you into the wall. You get dizzy, slightly nauseous, and to my younger self, it was fun fun. But because of Covid, I couldn’t get off. Not fun. And then there was the confusion. I had trouble understanding my phone. Several people in my life got mad – grandma, boss, parents, because I didn’t call them back like I usually did or didn’t do something I promised. But I couldn’t remember what they were upset about.

After about two and a half weeks of being sick, I seemed to have gotten over it… sort of. It was clear that I had “survived” it and didn’t get Covid pneumonia, but my body wasn’t doing well. I felt slow, weak, and unbalanced when standing. I didn’t feel like I had the energy to get through a day at work. I spoke to my GP several times about not feeling recovered. But after almost a month of being away, she said she just couldn’t justify writing me any notes. “You only have a mild post-viral illness. That happens sometimes. You’ll be fine.” Everyone told me I was fine. “Go back to work.” “Stick with it.” So I did.

When I returned, the bank was closed. We were making calls from our office to help people get PPP loans. I was mentally slower than usual, but I was coping well. After about two and a half weeks, the symptoms suddenly returned. I was dizzy and had that strong feeling of gravity pulling me down again. I was nauseous. So I called in sick. I was on sick leave for several weeks, but after a while my doctor again “couldn’t justify” writing notes. I was feeling a little better – but worse than the first time I went back to work. This time, I struggled to get up at work. I looked at the computer and struggled to understand the words I was reading. Finally, in mid-May, I collapsed on my desk and couldn’t lift my head up. I rested for 15 minutes and announced that I was sick and going home. The fifteen-minute drive was excruciating. It felt like I was looking through a blurry kaleidoscope. I coached myself as I drove: “Red light, red light. Time to stop,” I kept reminding myself. My head hurt more and more with each passing moment and I felt nauseous. Finally I made it to the parking lot. I dragged myself into the house, huffing and puffing, slumped against the door and sank to the floor. My fiancé came over and talked to me. I don’t remember what was said. But later he told me:

It was awful. You were more listless than I’ve ever seen you. I don’t know how you made it home. You should have called me.

But I still didn’t feel like I had enough space to be OK. That was going to be my last day at work.

As time went on, in May and June 2020, I got worse and worse. For a while, I was well enough to play The Sims 3. Eventually, I felt confused and sick while playing and had to give it up. I wasn’t well enough to make myself food. Eventually, all I could do was passively lie down and watch TV. Occasionally, I was well enough to read a little. I discovered a term called “long hauler.”

I thought it might be nice to attend synagogue online. God, Judaism, and I have a complicated relationship. I grew up Catholic and Jewish, and attended a Modern Orthodox synagogue with my father, who was traditional but not religious at home. In high school, all I wanted to do was move to Israel, get a Jewish education, and become frum (religious). So after high school, I moved to Jerusalem, for what I thought would be forever. But things changed. I was disillusioned and traumatized, so I went home to the U.S. And from then on, I slowly separated myself from religious practice. That I returned to Judaism after ten years surprised even me. But Long Covid is hard, and I was desperate for something. And finding God seemed like a good idea.

I decided to look for a conservative synagogue with a liberal bent. It turns out that the first one I went to was just that. There are two rabbis there, and one is gay, so I felt completely welcome as a queer person (one of the many reasons that had led me to leave the synagogue in the first place). The community is heavily involved in interfaith social justice initiatives: access to affordable housing and so on. Perfect.

As time went on, I became increasingly ill. Eventually, I was completely bedridden and incredibly sensitive to all stimuli, including light and noise. But more on that next week.

Now that we have this good news, how are people doing?