I just got off the phone with my doctor, who had humored me last week by writing a lab slip so I could have the Covid 19 antibody test. It was a long shot, I knew, but just in case that little bug I’d had was actually Covid, wouldn’t it be wonderful to know? I couldn’t imagine releasing that fear, but I knew my body and my emotional state needed relief.
Last March, around the third week, I didn’t feel well. I had a sore throat. A mild dry cough. A fever, but nothing horrible. My ears hurt a little. I was tired. I was cold. I called my doctor, who prescribed antibiotics but didn’t think it was the Corona virus. At that time we all believed the symptoms had to be a lot worse.
I had my blood drawn at the hospital lab last Wednesday. My doctor called this morning to tell me that I had antibodies, that I tested positive on all three tests, and that there was no chance of a false positive. The tests showed I’d had the virus months ago, in March.
He pronounced me “Covid Immune.”
My life just became easier. Less frightening. A little more peaceful.
Banjo Man will have the test done on Monday. Hopefully he was one of those people who had it but didn’t have symptoms.
I’ll still wear my mask in public. I don’t want to freak people out. But I’m going to get a copy of the test results to keep with me at all times. My doctor said I should write “Covid Immune” on my mask, but I don’t see the point.
It’s enough to know that now I can hug anyone I want.