I am one of those people who boasts about rarely getting sick. It is rare. My usual constitution would humble a 1950’s varsity quarterback, but Covid hit me like a baseball bat spiked with nails.
I’ve never had Covid until now. I know that’s hard to believe. It has been making the rounds for over half a decade. Everyone I know has experienced it, but this week was the first time I got the virus.
One day I was fine. I was out in the sunshine with friends and community teaching archery and eating fire-roasted sweetcorn. A few days later I woke up with a high fever, body aches, and a disorienting exhaustion. The kind of tired that makes you dizzy from standing up too fast.
Everyone told me to rest as much as possible. They were right, of course. I should rest as much as possible. I tried. But I run a farm alone, and even cutting back to the bare minimum of labor is more than most people do all day for physical work. If I take a day off, animals die. There are no days off for farmers.
So I got sick.
Then I got sad.
Then I got angry.
This summer was supposed to feel like it would last forever, instead it has been nothing but hardship after hardship with no respite, companionship, or relief in sight.
First I lost the loan I was counting on, meaning there was no chance the farm could possibly catch up on the mortgage. I re-sprained my already-injured ankle, killing any hope of hiking, running, or riding Mabel again this summer. I had to get expensive dental work or lose the last molar I had on my upper right. After that, Friday got life-threatening pyometra and needed emergency surgery. Then she needed a second emergency surgery to repair tears and infections from the first…
July was a blur of racing heartbeats and fear. All birthday plans and parties were cancelled. My fly rod broke. My car needs serious repairs. And I’m scared to eat anything that requires too much chewing in case it triggers more dental work on top of the root canal for my already-infected jaw I am dangerously putting off. My entire life is on eggshells, and the state of democracy feels even worse.
This was supposed to be another forever summer, right? It’s been hell. And the bright moments were ones I had to convince myself were okay. I am not okay. I am terrified.
So what now?
I’ll tell you what. I got hit in the face with a dirt clod.
Yesterday, I was slumped over, swaying in one of the hanging hammock chairs under the big maple tree. I was in a trance. Half despair, half virus exhaustion. August has been a canvas of dry, intense, heat. Having Covid hit me the first time in 90-degree weather, when I still had to work outdoors, was soul crushing. And in that low point of saccharin self pity I got slapped across the face with a slab of turf.
Friday was with me. She’s always with me. I never left her side while she was sick, and now that she’s healthy again, she wasn’t leaving mine. But she never promised she’d stop digging. Landscaping is her true passion and while I was moping, she was harrowing around the maple roots for buried treasure. Her paws sent a clump of dirt the size of my palm right at my face. It stunned me.
I needed it.
I looked over at Friday with an open mouth full of dirt. She was all smiles and bright eyes. Happily panting with a lolling tongue, standing on four sturdy paws like she was keeping the earth rotation steady, tail wagging like a pup. She didn’t give the tiniest shit about my silly human woes. She was alive and the sun was shining and her person was right beside her and the dirt. She didn’t need anything else.
I didn’t know what else to do so I laughed. It started as the kind of exasperated laugh that breaks tension, and then tumbled into actual laughter. Last month I would have sold my right arm to save her life. I would have given anything to only be worried about money and a limp. She was alive. She needed to slap me across the face to wake up to that reality.
My life isn’t hopeless and my dreams are not impossible. My dreams are ridiculously mundane: catching up on the mortgage, opening a savings account, and installing a washing machine. Those are my dreams. Not Paris. Not a Land Rover. Solvency, savings, and no longer going to the laundromat every week. Get back on my feet enough that I’m not too embarrassed to try dating again. If I want those things to happen, on my terms and on my farm, then these selfish pity parties need to stop and I need to see what is actually in front of me. Starting with that dog.
I gave her a kiss on the forehead and told her what a clever teacher she was. Then I went inside and took the last pounds of pork I was saving for myself out of the freezer, weighed it, and asked my best customer if she wanted it. She took it. That was a few hundred dollars headed my way, making my sales goal for the day.
I posted art and design sales on substack notes. I emailed reminders to people that said they wanted to purchase something. That never goes well but, I don’t have the time or interest for performative dignity, I’ll follow up until someone gives me a hard no.
Covid will pass. My ankle will heal, or calcify, or fall off, but it’s not my heart so it’s expendable anyway. The car still runs, I just can’t drive it far. I will earn what I need to. I will get those piglets in. I will continue to eat well from my garden and hens and larder. I will be frugal and write and hope and try. If I can get to a shelf on the cliff where I can get some air, then I will have all the energy I need to write something good enough that even my harshest critics will agree deserves $8 a month. I will keep going. I’ve made it 15 years. I can’t quit now. I won’t.
I grabbed the clod of dirt and threw it back at Friday. She jumped in the air and caught it in one happy snap, all four paws airborne.
Miracles happen every day. The dying get second chances. Good things happen to people that don’t give in to despair. Rain washes away the drought. Hope is real. And I can manage the dream of a washing machine.
I deserve it. I may not deserve a wife, two functioning ankles or a European vacation, but I dan well deserve a washing machine. I’ll give myself that much grace.
Onward. There’s work to be done.