The dreaded bug from 2019 finally came-a-knocking at my door this past week. My Covid resistant body, pumped with four shots of vaccine, two mandatory doses and two boosters, handled it well. Apart from severe, short-lived symptoms like body ache and fever, which lasted the first 48 hrs, the bug lost its battle against the vaccine by day three. But like any villain worth his salt, who musters all his strength for that one last blow before he collapses, the cheeky son-of-a-bug, dented my dignity on his way out.
Read on to know how.
I had just flown back home from four weeks of being away, just in time for a get-together with my batch-mates from school. I had enough time to get over my jet lag and to pack my bags for a weekend of fun with my other fifty-three year old buddies. I had picked a case of the finest scotch whiskey all the way from the duty free zone at Abudhabi to take with me to the party. Somewhere along the way, unbeknownst to me, the bug waited on the sidelines, to latch on to my clueless throat lining.
It began one evening with a mild throat irritation that I quickly blamed on the two glasses of vetiver flavored water, chilled to perfection in an earthen pot that sat innocuously on the kitchen counter. I went to bed with that ‘gale-mein-kich-kich’ feeling. The night was rough. I turned and tossed on the bed that felt like a hot iron had been just used on it’s surface. The morning after was the worst. I felt dizzy, disoriented and sick.
All night my fevered brain thought up lines of the speech I would give at the weekend do. I imagined eloquently speaking into a hand held mike about the phase of life that we were at, the responsibilities that we carry on our shoulders and how it was equally important to connect with childhood buddies who were all experiencing similar challenges. The strange sounds that my throat emitted from the achy depths, sounded bruised, tortured and inflicted with pain.
I tested negative on the rapid antigen test at home. Yet, I went to the physician to get my antivirals / fever meds to control the infection before it flared up. I had a party to go to! Around the same time, my mother in law tested positive on the home test kit. That was enough to psych the family. An RTPCR was mandated for the both of us. The dreaded results arrived on the second night of my illness — which was far worse than the first — when it was beyond doubt what the test would conclude.
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The antibiotics kicked in and the body temperature stayed normal from day three. I still hoped that maybe the result of the tests were a false positive. I could test again and prove it to the corporation of Chennai who were keeping tabs on my home quarantine, that I was safe to step out.
I had a party to go to!
But good sense prevailed. I thought of all the people who had lost their lives fighting the virus in the last two years. I had an unfair advantage. I said a prayer of gratitude for my good fortune and one for the departed souls and stayed in my room.
The virus had the last word. By the end of day three, my sense of smell ceased. I couldn’t smell the sambar at lunch. The evening coffee tasted weird because I couldn’t smell its aroma. I couldn’t smell the fragrance of my bath soap or the refreshing smell of my nectarine deodorant. I swear I could imagine the bottle of Elizabeth Arden Green Tea eau de parfum smirk at the Clinique Happy on the vanity shelf. I asked my amma for dried naarthanga peels to smell and opened tiny bottles of Axe oil to take deep lungfuls of air… not a whiff! I have always prided that my special power was being able to smell scents and identify odors. Not that day.
I felt like my wings had been chopped.
Without odors life seemed bleak. I was frustrated beyond belief. The fever, body pain, the cramps that followed, the sore throat, the blocked nose, the occasional cough all seemed manageable. But the inability to smell cut me down to size. I felt powerless against the mighty Sars Cov bug.
I asked every Covid survivor in my immediate circle if they experienced something similar. I didn’t believe the assurances I got that ‘it comes back’. I couldn’t just lay on my bed hoping that my persuasive ability of being able to smell scents has just taken a brief break. What if…?!
If you ask me to highlight the lowest point of my covid experience, losing the ability to smell smells, sums it. The inability to smell especially when you are gifted to have ‘a nose’ for things, can be a cruel shock. I began imagining the smells from my childhood, the ones that establish emotional connections. I had not felt sorrier for myself as much as I did then.
I was ready to take on a few more days of fever if I regained the power to differentiate cinnamon from cardamom, ginger from lemongrass.
People were right, thankfully. Imagine the palpable relief I felt when I could sense a faint whiff of coffee two days later. I sniffed deeply between sips, saying a prayer of gratitude each time I smelt coffee.
I am still in quarantine, living by the rules laid out by my housing society. I don’t want to pass the bug that could cause another nose the same tragedy.
