Living With COVID-19 Under the Blue Skies of Elected Florida Man.
It’s raining.
On July 9th, I took a COVID-19 test along with three members of my family. It was at a drive-thru testing site. I thought they were going to take swab of a nostril, maybe go a little deep in there like when you’re digging for a booger. Imagine my surprise when the cotton swap turned into hook to pull my brain through my nose (I’m having Jethro Gibbs, NCIS-esque flashbacks here).
No warning, no explanation, just pain and the possibility of a nosebleed (for my mother, it was an actuality). It happened, we were handed a few pages stapled together explaining how to get our results and what to do in the meantime and if we are infected, and we were waved off.
Cut to July 15. My sister gets a phone call from the health department informing her of her positive result. They asked if anyone in our household was sick and/or took a test, then said it was unfortunate for reasons I’m still trying to discern (I’ve settled on this: unfortunate because the flow gram had nothing for scenarios in which a positive individual answered ‘yes’).
Cut to July 22. My mother receives her test results after randomly checking her Quest account. We already figured she was positive after the weeks of 101-degree fevers, weakness, fatigue, diarrhea, terrible coughing, zero appetite, and now mental fog and a weird general despondency. It’s nice to have that confirmation after she’s on the up-and-up.
Cut to July 28. Nineteen days after four people were tested for COVID-19, only two people received results. In case it’s not landing for you: I had to request lab results when I created the account to receive the COVID-19 testing results, and 24-hours later, received results from four years ago.
In my pocket of sunshine and daily showers, masks are mandatory in public spaces. You can’t go into Publix without a face covering, but if the ice cream man comes around the neighborhood, all bets are off.
