Then, 435 days into an unrelenting illness, the weight of reality crashed down. It was the moment I told the love of my life she deserved to find someone else. Weeks after the initial, acute infection seemed to pass, a strange fog settled over my mind. Simple movie plots became labyrinths I couldn’t navigate, a cruel irony for someone building a career as a screenwriter. Lauren, ever patient, suggested nature documentaries, a gentler alternative. But even the raw beauty of the natural world felt overwhelming. My nervous system was so frayed that watching an orca hunt – a natural spectacle – brought me to tears.
Driven by a desperate need to reclaim myself, I turned to exercise, a familiar comfort. I was ignorant then, unaware that the virus had left a sinister parting gift: post-exertional malaise. Long Covid, they call it. A condition where even the mildest exertion can trigger days, weeks, or even permanent decline in function. My innocent Peloton ride was unknowingly lighting a match to a fuse. The next morning, I woke up in a body that felt alien, a chilling echo of a body-swap horror film.
The stories of long Covid’s debilitating fatigue were already circulating – tales of dishes becoming Herculean tasks, requiring breaks and naps. But the breadth of the illness was still a mystery to me. I was unprepared for the cascade of bizarre symptoms that followed: the agonizing, allergic reaction to sunlight, the electric fire of trigeminal neuralgia that felt like a constant masked torment, and a dizzying array of other inexplicable ailments. It was as if a critical screw in my internal machinery had simply come undone. Suddenly, at 37, my world shrank to the confines of my house.
The vow, “in sickness and in health,” sounds noble, even romantic, in wedding vows. But living it is raw and wrenching. For Lauren, love became a tightrope walk. One moment, she was projecting professional smiles in Zoom meetings, the next, she was gently guiding me back from the precipice of another anxiety spiral. She became the anchor, the sole breadwinner, seamlessly taking over the cooking – once my domain – the cleaning, the relentless demands of daily life. Sometimes, muffled sounds would drift from the bathroom – the faucet running, a desperate attempt to mask the quiet sobs. This, too, was the reality of loving me in sickness. This is why I love her. It wasn’t just about enduring the illness; it was about witnessing her unwavering strength and love in the face of it all.
