Next stop COVID

7.17.22…Mission finally accomplished.  The sum total of my worldly possessions in two bags.  A cross country road trip and a month in an airbnb on the East Coast served to teach me what I truly need and what I can do without.  My shuttle to the airport leaves in half an hour.  Next stop Greece... after that... the rest of the world, one stop at a time.

7.24.22…*sigh*... next stop, Athens… and the very next stop on my journey… COVID. 

 I joined a tour group to hop from Mykonos to Santorini to Sorento to Dubrovnik.  Made it as far as Mykonos before my congested sinuses made everyone go “hmmm.”  Absolutely convinced it was the result of a lot of travel, a lot of smoky air, and just general ickiness, I went out to town and to dinner with my travel group.  But as the evening wore on and I began to lose my voice, it became harder and harder to ignore the more probable answer.  Canceled my scuba excursion because congested sinuses means it will be too hard to equalize and get to depth.  Cringingly took a rapid COVID test and saw that dreaded second line within seconds.  15 minutes later, the result hadn’t changed.  Reminds me of every pregnancy test I’ve ever taken… A, already kinda knew the answer, so the test was a little superfluous; and, B, that positive result shows instantly...no need to wait the prescribed testing period.  (Oh, and C, no amount of wishing for a different result will change what already exists.)

 So I spent most of yesterday crying alone in my hotel room, the incredible waters of the Mediterranean tantalizingly close just beyond my balcony, the thumping music of the near 24-hour beach party drifting through my open windows.  

I am despondent, feeling as though I jeopardized the health, wellbeing, and fun of all of my fellow travelers.  Not to mention the incredible inconvenience of shifting schedules and maneuvering around a "confirmed case."  I am heartbroken, knowing this benches me for the foreseeable future.  I'll be missing out on not only the scuba trip previously mentioned but also boat outings; beach parties; a volcano and hot springs tour; dinners; that one dance club, in anticipation of which I've been lugging around a slinky dress and pair of heels...

I was convinced this new state of affairs would render me the group pariah, patient zero, the one everyone now detests for the inconvenience, risk, and infection.

But then the group leader came and spent a good amount of time talking me off my ledge, reminded me that we, as travelers in this barely post-pandemic world, all assumed the same risk, that in this Russian roulette game of germs, that bullet could have struck any one of us.  Then she brought me breakfast and water and promised me all would be well and that she’d handle informing the rest of the tour and express my sincere apologies to the group when they returned from their day’s various adventures.

So then I cried some more, this time over her compassion and kindness.  You will come to learn, if you’ve any interest in following my various journeys, kindness and compassion are not luxuries I extend to myself.  And so when someone expresses kindness and compassion to me in life, it tends to extract some pretty heady emotion from my deep well of unworthiness. 

Then I took some decongestant medicine and slept a lot.

And when I woke, I cried some more over the uncertainty.  This is one more – well, maybe several more morsels accumulating in Fear Monster’s feed trough, a bucket routinely contributed to by all of my inner voices screaming for comfort and normalcy.  Where do I go from here?  What if they tell me I have to “go home” and/or quarantine?  Where will that be?  Where will I go?  What will I do?  

 Fear Monster has been fed so many meals a day over the past few months that it is very fat and happy right now, so it has lots of energy to attack ruthlessly for sustained lengths of time.  Workaholic Self relishes moments such as these when she can indignantly bemoan the loss of all of her comfortable things and her comfortable home.  Her “I told you so” voice drones in dogged monotony.  I feel outnumbered in my own brain, beaten, defeated.  

 Sitting on a balcony overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, I am keenly aware that there are worse things than taking a timeout, with a mildly stuffy nose, to write, which was kind of my whole objective anyway (the writing, not the stuffy nose).  The emotional baggage of feeling directly responsible for, at worst, illness or, at best, inconvenience of my compatriots weighs more than the two remaining bags housing the entirety of my possessions.  And it hurts a lot more than the mild flu my body is currently fighting through.

 Later in the afternoon, as people returned to the hotel to freshen up and received the update about my positive result, in the stead of the angry torch and pitchfork-bearing lynch mob demanding my immediate extradition that I had expected, I received sentiments of care and concern for my wellbeing.

 So I cried some more.  That damn well of unworthiness runs pretty deep.

 Oh, and they all went to dinner and the dance party as planned and had a fantastic time.  And they have continued to attend all of their various planned excursions.  So I can just get over myself and my narcissistic belief that my circumstances create any dent or ripple in the course of someone else’s world.  I’m so busy being worried about and apologizing for taking up space that I forget I just don’t take up that much.

 The next morning, most every member of our group checked on my wellbeing and either brought me food and drink or offered to do so.  And they’ve continued to do so as I isolate and convalesce.  I expected to be ostracized, avoided, chastised, belittled.  Instead, I feel loved, cared for, and included (even if from the other room and behind a mask).