“Sorry for being a fuckface and giving you Covid,” Crankenstein said dejectedly this morning, an apology that would’ve made me laugh appreciatively if I wasn’t about to cough. I’d taken a test so I’d know whether to reschedule Tuesday’s PT appointment and wasn’t surprised when the bottom line immediately lit up like a Christmas tree — it was already pretty clear what’s ailing Crankenstein, who tested negative on Wednesday (the day she became symptomatic) but has since reported losing her senses of taste and smell.
We cut quite a sexy pair in our bedroom last night: she couldn’t stop coughing and my lower legs jerked each time in response. A wonky auditory startle reaction is one of my stupidest Parkinson’s symptoms, and most people don’t know how relentless and annoying it is. “Oh, I startle easily, too,” they say, imagining the sort of jolt you might get from an unexpected knock on the door or your spouse sneaking up behind you in the kitchen.
“This is like that multiplied by 100,” Crankenstein replied when I asked how she’d describe it. I can know a noise is coming, or I can be 99.8% asleep, and it doesn’t matter: my body reacts automatically, without my input, and limbs go flying or — if on my back — I levitate like Regan MacNeil. Between that and difficulty getting comfortable, I couldn’t sleep, and Crankenstein’s cough kept her awake. She tried propping herself up with extra pillows at 3 am and still couldn’t breathe. At 4 am, she announced she was going downstairs because trying to sleep was pointless.
By then I felt too hot, then too cold, and my neck and left hand and foot were clenched. I sat up to take more levodopa and a couple Tylenol, all of which lodged in the usual spot and didn’t budge with additional sips, then gulps, of water. By 5:30 or so, I was asleep — until my wrist buzzed at 7 am: a grocery delivery I’d arranged, full of special treats for Crankenstein (dal soup, mushroom bisque, her favorite ice cream, etc.), was on its way. She’s not too enthusiastic about food at the moment and I hoped it would entice her to eat.
We switched places then, and she tried to sleep while I dealt with Muriel and put away groceries. After flipping on the TV and pulling up Wimbledon, I grabbed a Covid test from a downstairs closet, Muriel eagerly trailing because that’s where her Heartgard and Bravecto chewables are kept. She soon fell asleep beside me on the couch, disappointed the box contained nothing edible. Result in hand, I canceled Tuesday’s appointment and turned my attention back to tennis until Crankenstein reappeared.
It’s been a dangerous day on grass: Grigor Dimitrov and Madison Keys, two immensely likable vets whose Grand Slam hopes are dwindling, had to retire from their matches with injuries, and Emma Raducanu’s receiving treatment after a spill of her own at the start of the third set. Coco Gauff will take Centre Court next, meeting compatriot Emma Navarro in the round of 16, and she needs to keep it together a bit better than the rest of us hacking, slip-prone messes. The women’s draw is quite exciting this year and I’d love to see Svitolina, Rybakina, Ostapenko and Collins advance tomorrow.
Forgot to mention this until a friend asked: Yes, we’re current on our boosters.