On July 15, I was tested for COVID-19. Typically, results are provided in two to three days. An hour after my test, I received a text that heavy demand would mean I would not hear for four to six days.
I decided I needed a test as I had been around a number of folks for Independence Day, and two days after getting home came down with a sore throat, sinus drainage, and an occasional cough. I could have waited it out, but I want to go to Iowa for the burial of Julie’s mother.
Mostly, I’ve been hoping to learn that I don’t have COVID-19. Yet, a quiet voice inside kept saying, “If you have it, you have a mild case, and that’s great. Because you have heart disease, you’re in a potentially high risk group. A mild case could be you dodging a bullet.”
Yet, if I were to get a positive result, that would mean trying to figure out where I got it. Contact tracing is important with this virus. A lot of people would become involved, would need to be tested or, at least, to isolate for a prescribed period. And I’d have to be tested again. And I wouldn’t be going to Iowa anytime soon.
My sore throat cleared up a couple of days ago. So, on that front, I’m good to go.
In the end, ninety-nine percent of me hoped for a negative result. The semi-quarantine since mid-March was hard enough, but I’ve been even more isolated since Julie needed to be in Iowa when her mother had a stroke and then died.
This is the most alone I’ve ever been in my life. The daytime alone, I’m used to. The evenings? They stink.
As I dressed for my morning run on July 20, I received the awaited text: “Results are in.” I logged onto the website, anxiously signing in and clicking to reach the fateful page.
I heaved a sigh of relief, put on my running shoes, and headed out.
Soon, I’ll be headed to Iowa. To Julie.
My isolation nears its end.