Photo by Aaron Ghena on Unsplash

Here’s how it feels to be sick in a tropical paradise, and why I’m absolutely furious about it

December 31st, the day after stupid

I woke up early with a pounding headache and staggered to the bathroom to get a handful of ibuprofen pills. How many can I take safely? I’m not a doctor but I do sleep with one, and since she was still sawing logs, I took four — the most I could take without being severely reprimanded. Then I commanded a pot of coffee to brew quickly with the psychic power of my addled mind, but it wasn’t listening, so I poured a hurried cup from the first drips. Powerful stuff, it’ll help, I thought.

It didn’t help because last night some idiot bought tequila shots (unnamed co-conspirator) and another idiot drank them (me). I’m such a dolt, I should know better, but I’m in Mexico and “that’s what they do here” I was told. I’m pretty sure that’s not true.

Most of the day was a slog but it got better as the day wore on and by dinner, I felt well enough for two glasses of wine. It was New Year’s Eve, after all. What a wild celebration it was, and I went to bed with a sore throat and a nagging headache at 10:00 PM, which I was sure was justifiable punishment from the tequila experiment.

January 1st, Happy New Year, sort of

New Year’s Day started out a lot better than that other day, but I still lacked the motivation and energy I usually have. No worries though, it was a day of transition. My wife, two daughters, and I were checking out of a fancy resort and moving from Ixtapa to Zihuatanejo to stay in an Airbnb for the final five days of our three-week vacation. It was close to the beach with a stunning view, and I was eager to explore the area. All we had to do was pack up, check out, grab a taxi and hang out on the beach for a few hours until our room was available. Hanging on the beach is something I’m pretty good at so I ignored my sore muscles and toughed it out.

That night after dinner, the niggling tickle in my throat returned like an unwanted relative. Another early night and I’d be fine by morning, I reasoned.

January 2nd, Mexicovid

I complained to my family that morning (one Epidemiologist and two Doctors of Nursing) that my sore throat wouldn’t go away and it had now moved up into my sinuses. I had body aches and a mild headache. My nose was runny too. Coffee and ibuprofen, my usual remedies, didn’t seem to help.

Lined up shoulder to shoulder like a firing squad, they took a few steps backward as we stared in silence waiting for someone to voice the pregnant question: “Could it be COVID?”

My first shot was a Moderna when I was eligible in April of 2021. The second shot was precisely 28 days later. I got a booster on November 11th, in conscientious preparation for this vacation. I wear masks, rarely eat out, avoid large gatherings, and behave responsibly. I’m a good boy. Even here in Mexico, I am as careful as I can be.

Nobody knows the odds of being infected when one is already fully vaccinated, but they do know with absolute certainty that breakthrough infections are remarkably less virulent. They estimate that 92% of hospitalizations and 99% of deaths due to COVID are from unvaccinated holdouts, most of whom have chosen to avoid a little prick certified as safe and vehemently recommended by every “normal” scientific body around the globe. The Pope (and therefore God) says to get it so I would expect a billion people to race to the nearest pharmacy. Rabbis, Imams, the Dalai Lama, countless gurus and swamis all recommend the poke and so a couple billion more should be lined up behind them. But they’re not and I’m furious about it.

Thousands of people die every single day, for no legitimate reason at all, with incalculable regret and shame. Their friends and families mourn their passing and eulogize their lives without a word about poor choices. Children are sent to foster homes where their lives are turned upside down. Elderly and the young are lost forever, tragically, slamming shut the door to love and life’s potential. And still, the march against the dreaded vaccine continues unabated, with signs and banners proclaiming falsehoods that are manufactured to support a spurious position, cloaked in the guise of personal freedoms.

So, yes it was COVID I had. Somebody transmitted it to me, and it’s likely I transmitted it to others (a chilling nightmare I’ll have to live with). My test lit up that dreaded double-red line in a matter of seconds, but we all stared at it for the full 15 minutes hoping it would go away. It didn’t. It’s still sitting on my counter, mocking me like a little sister.

There was no other choice. My family packed up their gear and spent the night in a nearby hotel.

January 3rd, isolation

They offered to stay and care for me, but I don’t feel like this is much worse than a flu bug and I’m optimistic that it will pass. I’m retired so I can sit around recovering, writing stories, and complaining about things that I can’t change. They have jobs and patients to attend to and they don’t deserve to get sick and pass it on to others.

In the morning they went shopping for everything I could possibly need and deposited care packages outside my door. We never got closer than six feet from each other and we wore masks. They begged me to invite them to remain so they could take care of me, but again I declined. They left me with air-hugs, blown kisses, and an empty feeling of remorse. I’ve been cheated by a microscopic virus and a macroscopic delusion. I’m furious about that.

I’m alone now like James Stewart in Rear Window trapped on a balcony watching the world through the circle of my binoculars. It’s the only way I can feel connected today and it’s a creepy thing to do. But I do it anyway and I make up stories about the people I see. There’s the pretty mother with her toddler playing at the edge of the surf. It’s the little boy’s first experience with the ocean and he’s frightened but comforted by his mom. He’ll grow up to be confident and successful. There’s the group of teenage boys with adolescent machismo trying to outdo each other, swimming farther and faster out past the crashing surf to the boats in the bay. They’re friends from a small village a day’s drive away, bristling with pride to be trusted to be out of sight of their parents, independent and free.

They deserve lives of opportunity and joy. They deserve to have parents who care for them and protect them from harm. They deserve animated dinners with their grandparents who regale them with adventures from times long past.

Tomorrow

I’m taking this one day at a time. Tomorrow may bring relief, or it could crash down on me like the surf I’m watching out my window. If so, Mexico has fine medical care and fortunately I have the financial wherewithal to afford it if needed. Too many don’t and I’m furious about that.