Fever Dream

On a cold Tuesday morning in early December I lay in bed, fantasizing. It was 4 am, that ambiguous, riddling time of day when it’s too early to get up but too late to fall back asleep.

In this fantasy, my swollen glands and muscle aches were not my standard run-myself-into-the-ground sickness, but rather, COVID. I dreamed of getting COVID. The second pink line would appear and I would whisk myself into a dark room and tuck myself under a heap of blankets, leaving my body warm and my face cool. I would lay in peaceful silence with my eyes closed and mind still, and for a few days, it would be acceptable that I simply dissipated into the covers without a trace.

My wish for COVID was a deranged and desperate attempt to slow down. My brain and body ached with responsibility. I didn’t see a path to not performing on any single commitment without resulting in a detrimental loss, so I simply continued to push. COVID shined like a singularly acceptable “OFF” button for my life.

Some weeks, my entire life’s responsibilities seem to converge, resulting in an impossible schedule of commitments and events. Rather than ease up on the gas, I break the glass and hit the red emergency button that ignites Mach 5. The moments of hypersonic speed are hard to understand in my subsequent retrospective state, brittle and bitterly exhausted. What compels me in those moments to go harder rather than let go?

I had a bit of time to answer this troubling question when my dream came true, and COVID came for me, more nightmare than fantasy. I lay, shivering and mummified in isolation for 48 hours. It hurt to move. It hurt to open my eyes. At one point I looked at my phone to respond to some texts and emails and a pain that I was certain was a brain aneuryism shot between my eyes. I silenced the phone and slid my eye mask back down. I was too tired to watch TV or read and instead simply let my mind meander through this semi-conscious state. The thought that kept looping back was how good it felt, even amidst the joint pain and throbbing headache, to lay there knowing I wasn’t supposed to be somewhere else physically nor mentally. Not only was it ok to be still – I was not allowed to be anything but.

As the brain fog thinned out and my head cleared, I realized I felt duped. There was no downhill coasting after ascending the summit. The work ethic I had developed had no end to its means. I was achieving goals through a brutally competitive grind that didn’t magically soften once the target had been attained. Instead, the collection of wins was accompanied by satchels of hefty maintenance manuals, each of which had its own complex set of requirements. I was fighting to keep all the wins running, which was almost as challenging as the road to getting them in the first place.

Throughout my academic career, young professional life and really up until I had Remi (our second) I operated with the understanding that overexertion was a means to an end. An objective goal always glittered in the distance – the grade, the job – which once attained, meant something. A rung surmounted in the ladder of life, the top being a vision of myself at 40, prosperous, happy, glowing with the light that my children, husband, and work provided. Invisible in that painterly portrait was the central station at the back of the house that was the control system of my life, beeping, sending alarm notifications, and requiring re-wiring and support all through the night.

Fear also compels me. The sensation of pushing myself to the brink is so normalized, I worry that if I’m not at full speed I am falling behind, and someone else is going to take my spot. It’s as if the treadmill’s speed button is stuck at 7.0 and the only way to stop is to catapult off, while a line of people eagerly wait to jump on once I tumble. I fear that to slow down means a loss of something I worked so hard for.

Michael tested positive 36 hours after me. The days that our COVID overlapped were dark. Several hours of the day were spent making sure we had coverage in our professional realms in order to care for Remi and Sy, and sleep. Existing had never seemed so hard. I promised myself I would not get myself sick again, as the impact of being non-functional has on my family became starkly acute.

Before our family was fully formed, I operated as if I was only accountable to me. I measured success from an individualistic perspective – what I was achieving. Now, I am held accountable by Sy, Remi and Michael – who view my achievements through a different lens. For them I am successful if doing what I do during the day (or night, or pre-dawn for that matter) gets me home happy and healthy for them.

I didn’t recognize this simple truth until having Remi. With one baby, I was able to cling to the semblance of what “my life” and “my happiness” constituted. My life was still mine. There was more space in the day, more room for me to stretch out and be me in the same way I always had. Sy’s needs changing converged with Remi (and her different personality, demanding of my focus) coming along. “It’s our life too now,” they giggled and gurgled.

COVID rattled around in my lungs up until a few weeks ago. I imagined the spikes of its proteins still pierced into my heart muscle like little tick’s legs into the skin. When I exercised they pinched. Other than that I was extremely lucky to have fully recovered, and with the world opening up, had swirling thoughts of staying in the city late, meeting friends for drinks, leaving the house before sunrise to get a headstart on the day. Basically a desire to feel the powerfulness of pushing to the brink of a burnout.

This past Friday I felt a cold coming on and woke up with a slowness. I opened up the medicine cabinet and reached for the box of Dayquil. I had a long day with a to do list that I hadn’t been able to make a dent in, and wanted the extra kick. I wanted to push that hyperdrive button.

You are human, Jenna, I said to myself, putting the pills back on the shelf.

The to do list items that had straggled remained unchecked. I took a 4:45 pm train home. I had dinner with the kids, read and laughed with them, and was asleep by 8 pm. I was proud of myself for listening to my body, for prioritizing being home for my kids, and for not sacrificing a good night sleep by taking a stimulant for the goal of powering through my work.

The next morning I went for a jog, and like a miracle, the spike protein pinprick sensation was gone. I had finally shaken it. I inhaled deeply, and sprinted up the hill. One step at a time.