David Von Drehle, writing from Kansas City:
The first symptom was fever. I figured I had the flu. No such luck. The mild to moderate symptoms of this coronavirus make garden-variety flu seem like a tea party. Rep. Mario Diaz-Balart (R-Fla.) described the relentless, soul-sapping fever as being hit by “a ton of bricks…”
My image is more particular. Seven days into the waves of fever, I was drifting half in and half out of sleep. I was wearing a down jacket with the hood cinched around my head. I was buried under the covers, teeth chattering. A week like that is a very long time. (Nine days, and counting, is still longer.)
In my weird dream, I was on the high-winter prairie. I was on horseback. The ground was black mud, and where the animals stepped, the impressions of their shoes froze almost immediately. Meanwhile, a hard, freezing rain was falling, filling the ruts with ice water. I fell from the horse into the mud. The horse kept walking over me. I couldn’t stand up.
Those are my mild to moderate symptoms. And I’m thankful for them. Because I don’t have certain other symptoms — not yet. My headaches have been few. For many covid-19 sufferers, the headaches are excruciating. My lungs are working well, which means I don’t have to enter the hospital.
It’s going to be a race now to see whether I can finish this column before I pass out.
And here’s the ending:
The idea that we’re on the brink of a return to normalcy is flatly insane. We’re barely saying hello to covid-19 in its mild and moderate mercies. That phrase itself reflects the blithe taxonomy of pandemic triage — whatever doesn’t kill you must be mild or moderate. It only makes sense in the context of a far deadlier version of the virus that, if allowed to run wild, will shatter public confidence in our leaders for years to come.
I am thankful for my mild to moderate symptoms. I’m not sure I could survive anything worse.