Mary Trump - On COVID, at Long Last

It took four years, but I finally got COVID. For that I guess I have to thank going to the Democratic National Convention and being among more people than I’ve encountered in the last eight years combined.

I wore a mask 95% of the time, but it was no match for the packed shuttle and cab rides to a from the United Center; the crowded lounges at the arena, the throngs of people pushing their way through the halls, and a stadium so alive with humanity—and exhaling—that I didn’t stand a chance. Did I mention that I was one of only a handful of people who wore a mask? That didn’t help either.

It's hard to describe the experience of being in Chicago last week—a combination of exhaustion, exhilaration, pride, and a nagging anxiety (e.g.—how can this election be close? What are we going to do about the electoral college?). My plan, when I got home, was to write about the entire trip—from the twelve-hour drive west along I-80 through (Donald) Trump country, to the drive home, but fifteen minutes before I pulled into the parking lot a block from my building, I started shaking uncontrollably. Four hours into the trip I’d hit a wall of exhaustion, but attributed that to the fact that I hadn’t gotten more than four hours of sleep a night since Sunday. A headache had been developing since driving through the hills of eastern Pennsylvania. But it was a stressful and unhealthy week, so that made sense, too. But I couldn’t make sense of feeling so suddenly unwell. By the time I parked in the lot, I wasn’t sure if I could stand let alone walk the block home. But I managed. When I got to my apartment, I just wanted to get to bed, but I needed to take my temperature first, just so had had some idea what I was dealing with: 103.5 degrees. And then it hit me—the last time I had felt like this was in the hours after getting my very first COVID vaccine back in March 2021. At that point, even without taking the test, I was pretty sure I had COVID—which I do.

I’ve been much sicker in my life—a case of pneumonia that had me coughing up blood; asthma attacks that landed me in the hospital for days at a time hooked to an IV-drip of prednisone; and bouts of bronchitis so severe they sometimes required two or three courses of antibiotics before I started turning a corner. The difference is, I understood the contours of those illnesses—the symptoms, how I responded to the medications, how I knew I was on the mend.

https://www.marytrump.org/p/on-covid-at-long-last