Knockin on Heaven’s Door

I don’t know quite how to begin with the story of our honeymoon, so I’ll just start with the fact that it began well. My sister and brother-in-law arrived from Florida for childcare duties on time and in good spirits, we all remained covid-free, and we got on the plane and went to Fiji. The H had commented that morning that he got a text that most of his coworkers had just tested positive after going on a family trip the weekend before - I asked him if he’d worn a mask at work like I’d asked in the days before the trip, and he sheepishly said no. We still had to pass a covid test at the hotel or face a seven day quarantine. So I started the trip on edge.

I also got served a disgusting greasy steak burrito labeled vegetarian at the airport, which I unfortunately ate about 1/4 of before I bit into a huge piece of gristle and realized this was no “beyond meat”. This made me very sick on the plane which made the 11 1/2 hour flight torture. 

Still, we got there, got our rental car, drove on the wrong side of the road and made it to the hotel, and they even got us into our room hours before we were allowed to check in. I discovered much to my disappointment that the all inclusive deal I’d bought was only applicable to one restaurant on the property; then found out later that at that restaurant the dinners were buffet only, and there was only one vegetarian option, so I basically had a choice of one thing to eat every night (for this I paid an extra $1000). Also that restaurant was basically like a loud chaotic middle school cafeteria, with screaming children falling out of chairs and cutlery clattering to the floor every five seconds and tons of people bustling around. I hated it. Total opposite of my Cancún all inclusive experience.

We had three perfect days. Sunday we took our only trip in the car to visit The Valley of the Sleeping Giant (a so-so botanical garden) and the Sabeto Mud Baths (which was fun until a puppy started stalking me and attacking my ankles). GPS didn’t work there and neither did the cell service I’d paid extra for - thankfully Waze did so we were at least able to get around. The next day we did a snorkel tour to a couple of islands. The first snorkel spot we all got the shit bitten out of us by sea lice - we thought we were being stung by jellyfish but an Australian traveler told us otherwise. Still, it was a nice trip that involved lots of jumping off the boat. 

The day after we did a similar tour but just to one small island where we spent the day. That morning we had managed to finagle our covid tests after we’d shown up for our appointment the night before only to find everything closed, and had tested negative, so I felt like I could finally relax and really enjoy this trip. 

Then early Wednesday morning I started having pretty bad diarrhea. I got up multiple times in the dark of night, and since the first review I’d read of that days’ tour was that someone had gotten food poisoning there, I assumed I was in for a bout of that as well. We’d eaten a lunch cooked out on the island and I’d had lots of raw vegetables and water of questionable provenance, so, I figured, here we go. Unfortunately the nausea started soon after and I spent about eight hours in agony before finally throwing up. That day’s tour - a cultural trip to another island with dinner - was off. I moved the next day’s River tubing tour to Friday assuming I’d need a recovery day. I took a covid test. Negative.

We took Thursday as a day to recover from my miserable bout of stomach upset, but I didn’t feel much better - I couldn’t stomach hardly any food, everything looked unappealing, and I just wanted to stay in bed. By Friday morning - the day of our river tubing tour where I had to get up at 5AM - I felt shaky and sweaty and miserable from not having eaten in two days. Despite getting up and getting dressed I just didn’t feel like going, but I hated the thought of canceling yet another thing when I was sure the sickness was behind me, I just needed to start eating. I took another covid test.

Positive.

I couldn’t believe it and yet I could believe it. Obviously the illness hadn’t made it to my nose and throat yet on the previous tests. And it’s rare to have gastrointestinal issues but not unheard of. The H was - and still is - inexplicably negative. Which means one of two things - either he caught it from his coworkers, was asymptomatic and passed it to me, where the virus went nuts (he had his booster two months ago - I wouldn’t be eligible until I got home), OR his booster just protected him from wherever I caught it (the plane, the resort, who knows). 

At this point I was feverish and coughing. We were set to fly out the next day. It was the worst nightmare I could have imagined. Do I stay in a third world country alone with covid for a full week, on my dime? Or do I try to make it home? For the next 24 hours we did nothing but helplessly debate this while I repeatedly took my temperature and translated Celsius to Fahrenheit - I was averaging 101-102°. Also, I was starving, and there was no way to get any food I could stomach, since there were no stores to speak of and the stupid buffet restaurant wouldn’t let the H take anything back for me (he finally smuggled some bananas and dinner rolls in his pants). I googled that the Fiji airport would be doing temperature checks at check in and threw up my hands in despair. 

But by the next morning my fever was gone. And I had aleve on hand in case it returned. We decided considering the stakes that I should try to make the trip, as awful as that felt on multiple levels. We checked out in the morning and then had an interminable six hour wait sitting around the pool until we could finally leave. I also got my period during this time. Thanks, I hate it.

When we got to the airport nobody did any temperature checks, after all that. And we did make it home, although of course I didn’t eat or sleep a wink, and the trip was absolute torture. I kept my mask glued to my face until the backs of my ears were red and raw. 

Upon arrival home, I immediately shuffled myself up to the attic and spoke to the kids & relatives in the pool from the attic window - later they made a little party for me since the next day was my birthday. 

The relatives left that night and I slept alone in the attic so as not to infect the kids. In the evening my fever suddenly returned with a vengeance, though - almost 103 - and I panicked and made an appointment for the next day to try to get paxlovid. I dragged my ass out of bed early in the morning and drove a half hour to the clinic only to be told I was a day too late for the drug and was sent home empty handed. 

This was where it really all fell apart for me.

The reality that this was how I was spending my fucking 50th birthday - after just having had this fucking virus RUIN the honeymoon I’d been planning for a year, ruin getting to hug my kids or properly see them off to their first ever sleepaway camp experience I’d been planning for ten years, do god knows what to my internal organs, this is how I turn 50?!? This?!? Infected with The Scary Death Thing?!?

Dylan’s “Knockin on Heaven’s Door” came on my iPhone shuffle and I just collapsed into sobs. This is it. I finally have covid after 2 1/2 years of dodging it and being the lucky one. And it’s been horrible. It has not been “mild” or “just a cold” or “just a couple of days”. Right now I’m going on about a week of feeling like shit and all the disruption and chaos that’s brought. I didn’t get to see my kids off to camp. And my entire birthday went by in a blur - I have not looked at the FB birthday greetings because everything about my birthday this year I find intensely depressing. I feel very angry and frustrated. All of the fun things I’d booked for myself this week while the kids are at camp are of course now canceled. I don’t know when I’ll feel better, I don’t know if I’ll be able to pick up the kids on Saturday or not. I hope so, but I don’t know. 

And in the middle of all this I still have fucking anti-vaxxers emailing me practically every day trying to argue with my covid policy for my event. I want to shoot them all in the fucking face.

So, this is it. This is what my honeymoon was like, this is what my 50th birthday was like. The worst possible outcome, really. And the worst, most laughable thing is I can’t even relax and not worry about being infected right before my event, because with this variant you can be reinfected just weeks later.

I hate everything. 

*I’ve received some very negative feedback on this post about the fact that I traveled home knowing I was sick. I get that many of you will have some opinions about that, but I’m telling you right now, you have no business judging me unless you’ve found yourself in my same position. So basically I’m trapped in a third world country with little to no health care system, at 50 years old, with no idea of what’s going to happen to me or how much this is all going to cost - how long are they going to keep me there? They say seven days, but what if I keep testing positive? What if I get very sick and need to go to the hospital? What if I can’t get a flight back when I’m in the clear to go home and am trapped there for days or weeks more? I’ve got two little kids at home with no available childcare - what if they test positive and can’t go to their camp for the week? What if I’m still trapped there when the week is up and can’t get home and we have no childcare? The H doesn’t get sick days or paid days off. I have a business to run and didn’t have my computer with me. What if I have to spend thousands on a flight just to get out of there? This was a very agonizing decision and I was terrified. I glued my mask on my face and held my breath and went. Do I feel good about it? No. But again unless you’ve been faced with that horrible scenario you have no business judging me, period.*