As we make our way through each day and night, stomachs and chests aching from the constant coughing, we find ourselves asking the same quiet question over and over again. When will this end? It lingers in the background of everything, from the moment we wake to the long hours we lie awake listening to each other struggle through another coughing spell. There is no clear answer, only the passage of time marked by tissues, restless sleep, and the dull soreness that never quite fades.
It has been twenty-two days for me now. That number feels heavy, as if it should come with some sense of progress or relief. Instead, I am stuck in this strange in-between place. I am no longer at my worst, yet nowhere near well. Tom is only nine days in, and I can already see the road stretching out ahead of him. If this virus follows the same path it has taken with me, he still has a long way to go to reach this point, this frustrating plateau where improvement is so slow it is almost invisible.
The coughing is what wears us down the most. It is constant and unproductive, offering no sense of release or closure. Each cough feels like it should lead to something, some clearing or easing, but it never does. Instead, it leaves behind a sharp ache in the chest and a lingering irritation that builds until the next round begins. There is no pattern to it, not predictable in a way we can brace ourselves for. It simply comes, again and again, day and night.
Yesterday, we read that a cough from RSV can linger for as long as eight weeks. Eight weeks. The number felt almost impossible when we first saw it, yet here we are, already deep into that timeline. If that estimate holds, we will still be coughing when we arrive in Marloth Park in twenty days. That thought sits uneasily with me. I try not to dwell on it, but it is hard to ignore the reality of what our bodies are telling us.
I do not like to be negative, but there is a difference between negativity and honesty. We have learned over the years that acknowledging what is in front of us, even when it is uncomfortable, is often the only way to move through it. I do not believe I am still contagious, though there is no absolute certainty. Tom’s case is even more uncertain. His symptoms did not begin until over two weeks after mine, which leaves us questioning everything we thought we understood about the timeline.
Out of an abundance of caution, he has chosen to stay away from family. It is not an easy decision, especially when we are so close, but it feels like the responsible one. Instead, our days pass, one rolling into another. He naps on and off, his body clearly asking for more rest than usual. I find myself dozing here and there as well, though never deeply enough to feel fully restored. Sleep comes in fragments, interrupted by coughing and the discomfort that follows.
On Sunday night, I plan to go out with my son, Greg, to celebrate his girlfriend Heather’s birthday. He is picking me up at seven to take me to her party, about a half-hour drive from here. Even writing that feels like a small step forward. I know I will have to push myself. The idea of being out late, of making conversation, and being present feels daunting in my current state. Still, I also know that I need to begin reentering the world, however slowly.
There is a delicate balance between listening to our bodies and not allowing this illness to define our days completely. I am not sure I will get it right, but I am willing to try. More than anything, I look forward to the day when this is behind us, when the coughing fades into memory, and we can once again move through our days without this constant weight.
For now, we wait, we rest, and we hope.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, May 22, 2016
