As the virus works its strange, invisible magic inside me, I watch its outward manifestations: constellations of blood-red spots called petechiae strewn across my stomach, breasts and arms; purple circles under my eyes; eight pounds gone; my first white hairs. Before our travels, Id considered myself a healthy 37-year-old and regularly went on runs around my neighborhood. Now a flight of stairs leaves me breathless. On the oximeter, my pulse races at the slightest stressors.

Over the phone my doctors voice is tired, almost defensive. Shes worried about blood clots, and tries to get me into several labs for tests, but I cant pass their symptom checks. At this stage, she tells me, the only place that will take someone with Covid symptoms is a hospital. If the pain gets worse, I should go to the nearest emergency room in Providence.

A friend whose Covid-19 battle lasted a more typical 14 days drops off groceries; the last rolls of toilet paper in the aisle. For months weve relied on delivery services for supplies.

You can take your mask off, she calls from the sidewalk. Im not scared anymore.

From her undyed part, gray hairs reveal themselves in all their lived wisdom and glory. When she offers to go to the hospital with me, tears drop into the mask dangling from my chin.

At the E.R., seven hours of tests: EKG, CT scan, chest X-ray, ultrasound. I lie on the hospital bed, one arm pinioned by an IV, wires threading from my chest to the heart monitor bleating above my head. A patient moans, and the halls echo with the commands of X-ray technicians shouting Dont breathe! Breathe, a remedial paparazzi.

The doctor comes in with no news. Even from the inside, my pain cannot be seen. What is it? I plead.

I know youre scared, he replies, staring at me over his mask. Im scared too.

The doctors think its post-viral syndrome, I explain to family, friends, co-workers, though the pain is anything but post. Its animate, moving, alive inside me. Instead of the orange cat, I now imagine a pale green dragon stealing out the door, a thick, scaly tail snaking behind, thumping ominously.

Continued here:

Whipped by the Long Tail of the Coronavirus - The New York Times