I used to roll my eyes when I'd hear people talk about their weight loss journeys, their addiction recovery journeys. A journey, to me, was something you did with a backpack while travelling. I've since broadened my definition. I tested positive last week for covid and it went from bad to worse. Yesterday's hospital visit, coupled with previous doctor visits and prescriptions will end up costing me the equivalent of a long weekend in Paris, minus the pain au chocolat, visit to the Louvre and mandatory people watching from a trottoir cafe.
This week in between semesters at Auburn was supposed to be spent bush hogging at work and painting at my other house in the evenings. Neither of which happened. Undeterred, I thought in the least, I could catch up on scanning farm receipts. Splitting headache and high fevers for days killed that idea too.
Next insult was the viral pneumonia diagnosis. They sent me home with an antiviral inhaler, I felt better.
So good in fact, that I decided to go through with the preplanned hay run to northern Tennessee on Tuesday.
I left at midnight Monday night, breezed through Atlanta, tip toed across Knoxville before morning rush hour, arriving early at the farmer's mountaintop hay fields.
I'd been told that CDC quarantine times have been reduced to 5 days, and I was past Day 5. Usually, it an take every bit of 4 hours to load the 220 bales because the older farmer insists on helping and he's in possession of so much lore that it spills out at every occasion.
This time, I refused his help. He disapproved of my new stacking method and would jump in the van to restack the bales. I watched him struggle with the heavy bales, his little flamingo legs buckling under the weight; I finally forcefully told him I didn't want him in my air space. And I managed to squeeze 13 more bales into the the Uhaul thanks to my unsanctioned stacking method. 233 bales total.
The farmer would bring me 8 bales at a time with his grappler, then sit in his tractor, like an old wet hen, shaking his head in disapproval that a woman was doing the physical work. Granted, I did look like shit, still do, but I'll never be useless!
I left with a full belly of hay and the optimism that I might actually make it past Atlanta before 4 o'clock rush hour. In spite of only 2-1/2 hours sleep the day before, I kept the pedal to the metal. Record breaking 16 hour roundtrip, 3 hours shorter than my previous 19 hour record.
Adjanie had sustained my spirit by sending me pictures of all the dogs and horses. She has an artistic eye for composition and lighting.
I had McGyvered a cut up waistband from my shorts to allow the dogs to come and go out the front door during my absence. The strike plate had been taped over. I had enjoyed the security camera footage of what looked like a saloon door opening and shutting a million times.
We unloaded the hay the next morning, despite the hay elevator chain hopping off its track twice. (Murphy)
Tip of the hat to Adjanie and Bri who have been manning the ship and forsaking their weekend off to cover my shifts.
Upon returning the Uhaul, I dropped back in at the doctor office for a quick recheck. From there, I was mandated to the ER. Covid causes blood clots and with my holey heart and previous stroke history, a blood clot in my lungs was suspected.
I think my picture is next to the word 'comorbidity' in the dictionary.
The doctor's thick accent made understanding questions difficult. When he tapped at my chest, I assumed the metal clasps of my bra were an issue, so I struggled and pulled my bra out my sleeve. Tada. Apparently, that wasn't what he had requested. Also lost were the names of the drugs they piped into me or any discharge instructions. I did catch the fact that I would need to go back to my regular doctor for a recheck on Friday. That's about it. Oh, and the fact that if I cut myself, I can bleed to death.
I had attempted to complain about my lost sense of smell; how I'd rather go deaf than lose my sense of smell. He seemed uninterested, I guess they have bigger problems in whatever war torn country he left than Karens who can't sniff their precious posies. My entire flower garden is one of fragrances. I can smell when I'm close to a snake long before I can see it. I know the smell of each of my dogs individually. I hate covid for making people scared to hug each other anymore. I miss the smell of all my friends. I mourn the loss of smell, I cling to the hope that it will return. A neighbor close to 3000 feet away uses a nauseating fabric softener. He does laundry on Sunday nights, like clockwork. I thought I could smell a ghost of it, excited, I tested my theory. I produced the best fart I could muster, looked over at Emmett who winced from it, yet I smelled nothing.
If there's anything I learned this past week is that my life isn't worth living without good friends, dogs and horses.
