I lived alone with my aging grey-striped cat in my newly rented no-bedroom apartment. Miami Beach for the winter, possibly beyond. Warm weather, bright blue skies, turquoise shimmering water, white sandy beaches. I’d landed in a sliver of paradise. How could I have predicted that my new home would duel for first place as the epicenter of a virulent global virus? I joined a tiny gym in a resort hotel frequented by travelers from New York, the other city vying for and frequently winning first place. New Yorkers down for the weekend worked out side-by-side with us locals, lifting weights, chatting, sharing the occasional high five.

I loved riding the free trolley that connected the beaches. I’d hop on a block from my home in North Beach; past Mid-beach with its tall beachfront hotels on one side, yachts docked in the waterway on the other; five miles to South Beach, glitzy and trendy. Often standing-room-only little buses with wooden bench seats, they teemed with humanity. Kids in bathing suits, curled up together like pretzels vaping weed sat next to Orthodox Jewish couples dressed in black from head to toe. Tourists in crisp, pastel outfits, sunhats, emitting a faint scent of sunscreen, boarded from hotels. Waiters and bartenders in black slacks, on their way to work, carried starched white shirts on hangers. Transportation, entertainment, community.

Life was good. No, not just good. It was great. Then it started—a strange, dry cough seemed to take over my body, inhabit me. It was unlike anything I’d had before. Naturally, I consulted the internet in the middle of the night, but I couldn’t find a suitable cancer to blame. It was bizarre. I dosed with antacids hoping it was GERD, a condition I hadn’t had in years. I carried cough medicine with me everywhere, chugged it on the trolley, in the movie theater, in the backseat of an Uber. It sat on my bedside table for easy access. I worried that my all-night coughing fits would wake my neighbors.

The first doctor I saw said it was bronchitis and prescribed antibiotics. A week later, not improving, I returned. They added steroids to the mix. When it got worse and I called for an appointment, they said they could not help me any further. I was not welcome back. A new physician prescribed antiviral medication, handed me a mask and sent me to her affiliated hospital for a chest x-ray and Covid-19 testing. There would be no available testing at the hospital nor anywhere else in the city for many weeks.

My final trolley ride was the night I wasn’t well enough to walk a few short blocks home. After that, I was too sick to leave the house. A month later the trolley was shut down, along with much of the rest of the city. Beaches closed, hotels ceased accepting travelers, streets were eerily yet delightfully quiet.

I was fortunate to find a lovely, knowledgeable pulmonologist who was treating Covid patients. She assured me that although I clearly had Covid, I’d get better. We both knew she couldn’t be sure, but I hung onto her words none the less.

Slowly, over several weeks, my symptoms diminished. I was weak and a minor cough remained, but I was on the mend. I resumed my life. But my body was altered in ways I didn’t recognize. All the stuff of life and health that I had known, counted on—working out, running, yoga, seemed to make be sick, rather than well. Multiple times I ended up velcroed to bed for days. I called myself a Covid-19 reenactor. Symptoms were extreme, countless and confounding. Over the course of a few months, I got sicker, eventually too ill to take care of myself. I accepted my daughter’s demand, couched in a gracious offer, to live with her on the other side of the country. My three daughters agreed to tag-team my care.

Confined to bed, unaware of what was wrong, I researched my symptoms. Once again, no cancer materialized. Diabetes seemed like a stretch, but possibly a fit. Grave’s disease looked plausible. I shared my symptoms and personal diagnosis with my new doctor, apologized for being a mediocre diagnostician. He told me I had Long Covid. My illness had a name, one I’d never heard.

I desperately sought cures—diets, meditation techniques, compression garments, electrolytes. I bought homeopathic remedies in blue and white plastic tubes, $50 supplements advertised as surefire cures. I consumed turmeric, CBD oil, green smoothies, nutritional yeast.

Weeks led to months. Body aches; fatigue; memory loss; treatable and untreatable illnesses arose from the simple act of living. They were debilitating and unyielding. There were trips to the emergency room with varying scares, countless doctor visits. Tachycardia, POTS, GI issues, a seizure. Formerly a runner, I was no longer able to walk around the block. 118-pound athlete, vegan health food nut, I was now prediabetic.

Although I would never have wished this illness on anyone, and I was keenly aware that many were dying, I was thankful that others were sequestered at home. Fortuitous for me that people who were well, in addition to those who were sick, were socializing and working online. I could sit up for an hour on a Zoom screen, pretend to be functional. I could feel less lonely.

I adopted new goals, fantasies. To be able to get dressed, stand up and walk to the corner. Or the outrageous aspiration, walk all the way to the library, a quarter mile away.

Shame, fear and depression were ever-present.

I found a support group online led by a pulmonary specialist in New York. I looked forward to that Sunday meeting all week long. Being in the company of others, mostly women, who were struggling with many of the same issues was a comfort. There was caring and connection. I didn’t have to sit up, to act well.

There were times when I thought, This is how I die. Occasionally it morphed into Dying seems like an elegant solution. I had never before been suicidal. I guess I had never felt any reason to be. In fact, as it turned out, I’d led a charmed life, one in which I thought I was the master of my destiny, trusting in the delusion that if I did everything right nothing could go wrong.

I thought back to my years playing soccer, that last game on my sixtieth birthday. A perfect, balmy spring night, on the field with women I’d played with for decades. My Achilles tendon, the good one, finally said enough. Years earlier, I had torn my calf muscle in a game. At intake, the physical therapist asked what my goals were for treatment. I looked around the busy rehab center. Patients sat in wheelchairs; others were relearning to walk; some would never walk again. My goal was to fix my torn muscle so I could get back on the field as quickly as possible. I was ashamed to say it. The therapist assured me that whatever my goal, it was worthy. That comparing myself to others was of no use to me or to them. My muscle healed and I played until the next injury sidelined me. And her advice stuck. I have drawn upon it countless times over the years—comparing myself to others serves no one.

Then came the support group meeting in which I was an angry asshole. We’d had other themed meetings. We’d celebrated holidays together, Christmas, New Year’s, Valentine’s Day. We even had a talent show. But that would come later. This one was a chance to talk about what we had learned from being ill. We went around the Zoom room, anyone free to speak as always. I felt bombarded by toxic positivity, saccharin sweet religiosity. I was awash in judgy, negative emotions. “I’ve learned to slow down.” “I know it’s gods will, and in his wisdom a plan for me.” “I have much to me thankful for.” My turn. My one sentence offering— “What I’ve learned is that my life before Covid was fucking awesome.” Switch to mute. They proceeded on.

We’ve all heard the phrase, When the student is ready the teacher will appear. Not unlike my wise physical therapist, one Sunday, our support group leader quoted a well-known basketball coach, John Wooden: "Do not let what you cannot do interfere with what you can do.”

I imagine he’d said it before, but this time I was able to hear it. My path toward healing, not from my illness, but from my negative approach to it had begun.

I stopped envisioning my sickness as a demon, a creature inhabiting me, an unwelcome invader that had to be purged. I acknowledged that this is who I am. I became slightly less afraid, less angry. I started to embrace things, no matter how trivial, that I could do.

It has been over four years. Many of my acute symptoms have lessened. Others that I probably don’t remember have disappeared entirely. I often forget, ignore, deny. Medical issues, new and old, continue to emerge.

I attend the Sunday support group less frequently now. Many have dropped out as others have joined. Invariably, newbies recount the ways they used to be highly productive, engaged in life, well. I recognize myself in their stories. We all do. Some want to know how long this will last. I occasionally joke about what an asshole I had been, citing my infamous line, “What I’ve learned is that my life before Covid was fucking awesome.” Self-deprecating, shamefully making light of that judgmental moment when I was overcome by anger and pessimism. I seek forgiveness, acknowledging that my life is awesome in spite of Covid.

I am often reminded of Leslie Jamison’s memoir, Recovery, in which she explores her journey of alcoholism, sobriety, failed sobriety, in graphic, gritty detail. She recounts the lives of others she met along the way in the rooms with reverence, evoking a shared humanity. I embrace those I have encountered in our Long Covid room with similar appreciation and fondness. Not their real names, but there’s Joe, formerly a hard-driving triathlete, father of three, sole provider for his family with a highly demanding job. His despair was extraordinary, verging on suicidal. He coaches his son’s baseball games now and he’s back to work, albeit not as intensely. Stephanie was delighted to be able to go skiing last winter. Jody was afraid she would never teach Pilates again, a career that had fulfilled and supported her prior to getting sick. She has reopened her studio. Others are not so fortunate. We hold space for them all. They show up to meetings in bed with oxygen cannulas. They discuss upcoming medical procedures; job losses and financial concerns; doctors who order tests and conclude that there is nothing wrong; loved ones who want them to snap out of it. I am grateful that these are not my narratives.

Although predictably unpredictable, there are days, even weeks, when I am remarkably well. A welcome seesaw, benevolent metaphorical roller coaster. Last year, for example, I ran the local 5K Turkey Trot. I came in second in my age group. There was no runner in third. When I proudly displayed the medal hanging around my neck to my daughter, I admitted it was because no one else showed up. She said, no, it was because I did show up.

I still flare from overactivity. I flare for no reason at all—aching limbs and joints, racing heartrate, fever, brain in a fog. Some days I am horizontal, yet my life is fulfilling. I delight in activities formerly considered mundane, now surprisingly exciting. There are days when I mourn my lost self. There are days when I celebrate all that is rich and amazing.

I keep the Miami Beach trolley app on my phone. Sometimes I open it, watch wistfully, longingly, as tiny bus icons make their way up and down beach roads. I imagine the feel of warm air blowing in through open windows. I picture riders hopping off and on; sitting on wooden seats; standing, holding on to metal bars overhead; talking, laughing; strangers becoming friends. I wish them well.