I’ve been quite ill. The sort of illness where you can’t get out of bed. Can’t hold a thought. Can’t read a page from a book.

I set a goal one day to sit up for 2 hours. During that time (full disclosure, mostly lying on the floor), I watched Dead Poets Society and scribbled down every poem reference about life, and impeding death.

To net my health saga: A self diagnosis of Covid while we were in Paris was wrong. Equally wrong was my long-haul Covid diagnosis when I kept ebbing.

I eventually recovered.

I eventually relapsed.

Once home, I saw a doctor. She drew blood. The next morning, she called. “Take your bloodwork and go to the emergency room. Your liver enzymes are extremely elevated.”

I went immediately.

There they drew more blood. Tested for all the flavors of hepatitis—plus one additional virus that can also make your liver wonky: Epstein Barr.

Bingo.

Diagnosis: Epstein Barr induced acute viral hepatitis.

It all makes sense now. The 10-hour-long deep and dreamless sleeps. The days of sheer exhaustion. I didn’t have Covid, I had mono. In keeping with the theme that I’m living my life in reverse, sixty-four-year-old me had had a teenage illness.

I’ve laid in bed several nights before and since my diagnosis and suspended all plans for future travel. Quite simply, I’ve wanted to wrap myself in cotton wool and stash my someday-healthy body safely in a cozy nest. No malaria. No brain-eating amoebas. No acute itises in any major organ.

Then I reminded myself that I had recently visited a staid shortlist of places: the United States, France, death’s door.

No India. No Nepal. No Senegal.

Eventually, I returned to one undeniable truth: To stop living won’t stop dying.

As I chatted with the emergency room doctor about what I could expect (a slow recovery sprinkled with some crummy days), he reassured me. “People who present like you. Otherwise healthy. Fit. Do well with this.”

Oh bull, behold thy red flag. I’ve recommitted to being the best friend a liver ever had. I’m interviewing primary care physicians. Catching up on tests I’ve ignored. Heightening my health and fitness focus. Informing myself on how I’ll get care wherever, come-what-may.

And I’ve recommitted to a life well lived. To shed my cottonwool sheath as a butterfly sheds its chrysalis. To go forth.

The other day Pat asked how I felt. I told him that I was beginning to imagine feeling well—flickers of health that would, for now, suffice. Today, for the first time in weeks, I walked the 1/2 mile to my coffee shop.

My powerful play, it appears, will go on. How invigorating to plot the verse I’ll one day contribute. To chart a course, not fearlessly, but in spite of my trepidations. Simply put, to seize the day.

I’m readying my sails.

O Captain! My Captain!

Categories: Ruminations

Tags: Expat life, nomadic retirement, the world inbetween, Unusual retirement options