Long Covid Diaries, No. 49: the end.

It’s been three and a half months since my last covid diaries update. For my official "covid diaries" see here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; and here. Today’s post ends this diary (of course Digressionsimpressions remains ongoing).

A strange superstition has been keeping me from writing this post: what if I declare myself recovered prematurely? What if I am in denial about an ongoing symptom? What if new symptoms become apparent to me? What if former symptoms return? I had started this Substack as a (failed—too few paying subscribers!) potential Plan B, while I adjust to a life of potential permanent disability; if I keep the substack am I really recovered?

Simultaneously, I am exulting in life. In person I am happy to share my joy about my full recovery; and renew some old habits I have missed intensely while sick: I can walk and talk again; listen to music while writing; eavesdrop while talking; schedule multiple social events on the same day again; have dinner with multiple people at once, etc.

A few weeks ago, when I was in NYC, I suddenly realized that some of my best friends had not really registered the end of long covid. They scheduled dinner with me early in half-empty restaurants. Yes, they had received my encouraging messages, but decided better be safe than sorry (assuming, too, not unreasonably that the switch from 42 months of relative solitude to Manhattan’s nightlife might be a bit much all at once.)

When I returned home, alerted by this experience, I realized that my family, too, had not caught up fully with the fact that I was not struggling with long covid anymore. Yes, they heard my words, but they had not internalized the end of nearly four years of very tight scheduling, of tightly controlled environments (of noise evasion, party evasion, early bedtime, quiet living rooms, etc.), and my general retreat from sociability and the world. Having energy to register and acknowledge it: I suddenly caught an oblique glance of their suffering and sacrifice; and their disbelieving relief it had ended.

One of the really difficult parts of chronic disability (that is mostly invisible to the outside world) is that the disabled person has to educate others and care for self through advocacy and boundary-setting all at the same time. Each and every day there are negotiations with a world not yet (and sometimes never) organized around one’s new constraints and needs not to mention vulnerabilities. When the disease — somewhat maddeningly — evolves these challenges only get harder. (Luckily I had my ‘fellowship’ of people who reached out to me after I started my diaries, and who were a bit ahead of me in this cycle.) The family of a chronically disabled person has enormous amount of macro and micro adjustments to deal with on any given day. In my case, because I work in one country and my family lives in another, there was the added weirdness that after being away for a period of teaching I would often return with a different symptomology and so whole new set of needs and expectations.

And now after all these macro and micro adjustments, I was saying let’s go back to life. About two weeks ago, my wife and I had our ‘'first date and first kiss nineteen years ago’' anniversary; and I wanted to celebrate with concerts and dinners (we did). And, of course, we were also celebrating an unexpected new chance at delights denied to us for several years. One night we went to a concert that ended around 10pm. We didn’t head back home to bed; but had a late dinner (not just, say, a dessert). It’s what couples in the big city (London) do. And yet, we had grown estranged from it.

But of course, I can’t go back to where I was four (and counting the year of lockdown) five years ago. Each of has changed; and aging is catching up with all of us. (Regular readers know I actually suspect that viral infections are sources of many phenomena associated with natural aging.)

Tomorrow, I intend to bring my old bike to the repair-shop for a big service. Later this week, we’ll see if my brain can handle the cognitive overload known as cycling in Amsterdam. I am a native so I can do an experimental test on the local adage: you never unlearn how to ride a bicycle. But Amsterdam traffic has changed even during the last five years: e-bikes, fat bikes, silent cars. I’ll probably first start cycling on a quiet bike lane in the park on Sunday morning. I also need to get back into shape. Will I remain migraine free if I exercise rather than just walk everywhere?

In fact, I do have good reason to be a bit cautious about the extent of my recovery. First, during the last four months, when I have otherwise felt recovered, I have had to go to a physiotherapy (to deal with minor muscle aches due to general lack of use and strength); and when I cognitively multitask —the physio explains and I try to memorize and copy a new exercise — I usually return home floored (but recover quickly, which I didn’t a year ago). So, I know that there are some new natural limits in me. What happens when I return to my daily swimming routine?

One reason I want to return to exercise is this. And a second reason for caution, as a side effect of the medication that ended the long covid (migrain-y) symptoms (basic blood pressure reduction medication), my asthma returned after a forty-year hiatus. It’s a known side effect of the beta-blockers. The asthma does not impact my quality of life in any fashion (it’s not serious asthma), but I have a kind of old-man’s smoker’s cough now (never smoked)—rather un-charming. I did go back to my GP and we ended up changing my asthma meds and I am experimenting with dosage now.

So, why am I writing this end-of-diary-digression now? Today, in the center of town, I bumped into the first husband of my high school sweetheart. Somebody I have known for decades, like, and find interesting—a well-known journalist and author. But the kind of person I would have avoided saying hi to on the street (and often did avoid saying hello to) during my long covid (quietly inventing excuses for my own behavior); but the bottom line was I had no energy or desire to explain why talking on a busy street in an uncontrolled, noisy environment was itself an enormous challenge involving all kinds of trade-offs). Today we caught up on life in the busiest part of Amsterdam. We are at the age of family and parents of friends dying and descending into Alzheimer’s. With once overlapping social lives, the talk wasn’t about strangers either. We didn’t need to fake more intimacy than we have. But his hug about hearing about my health was a caring rejoicing in being alive, and laughing (not mockingly) at the kidz all around us, on a glorious cold mid-winter Sunny day.

Tomorrow, my Spring semester starts. I have 340 enrolled students in my lecture course on the history of political thought. I am unhealthily proud of the course; you can read the teaching philosophy behind it (here). I edited my slides. I took out a few; but alarmingly added more. Most of tomorrow’s lecture is devoted to epistemocracy, sortition, and a close reading of the ship of state. (My Plato is surprisingly Machiavellian by the way.) I will newly spell out Aristotle’s and Polybius’ typology of constitutions. In general, I have decided to weave more Polybius quietly into the main narrative of the course; when we reach Machiavelli in a few weeks they will be prepared for my new take on corruption. When I was done, I uploaded the new lecture. Only then I counted the slides: 40. I did the math. It means 20 slides for each 45 minutes segment. I started laughing out loud: if I get a few good questions from the floor, and allow myself some digressions and jokes, I will never get through them all. I looked at the last ten; and made a mental note about which ones I would have to skip.

In my public lecturing during the last few months, I have become aware that my time-management is not what it once was. It would be interesting if long covid has affected my chronoception. But I suspect it’s old-academic-man symptom: give us an audience and we profess with abundance. How insufferable I become as I catch up on lost time? Prudential self-command will eventually rein me back. But for now, I close with this impression: <oneself as a participant in a version of Zeno’s paradox> here’s comedy that constitutes philosophy.