OK, this is a newspaper, and when there’s a newspaper, that means you have a right to know. Everyone has a right to know when something goes wrong in town, when something goes wrong at the paper.
So now let me tell you. The new guy — me — came down with COVID-19.
This, of course, was a complete and total surprise to me. Here I was intending to work very hard, writing stories, taking photos, laying out pages, and handling the day-to-day operations. And then, late Thursday night, I was woken by a cough. Not just any cough, not just a hacking cough. This one felt like a freight train trying to escape my throat.
Instantly, I knew it was COVID — a full 12 hours before any official diagnosis. Which was astonishing to me because this came after the shots, after I had made it more than three years of not having any disease, after three years of no symptoms. But suddenly, just as I started my new job as editor, I got slammed with yuck and pain.
In addition to the coughing, the other symptoms were extreme tiredness, and I kept on pulling a muscle in my leg. And that part wouldn’t go away. It was hours upon hours of calm, then screaming pain, then calm, then screaming pain, then calm, all night.
What does COVID have to do with leg pain? I dunno. Usually, I get that way because there isn’t enough iron in my diet. Or potassium or magnesium. Maybe I should have some blueberries with spinach.
My brother had it even worse. He mentioned that he coughed so hard he actually broke a few ribs from the coughing. Hmm. Leg pain or broken ribs. Leg pain or broken ribs. No matter how bad it is for you, someone else will have it worse. It would have been better if I had never known.
The truly odd part is exactly one week earlier, I had landed in Haines, Alaska. I was thinking about incubation periods and figured I picked up the disease at some breakfast kiosk right before getting on the plane in Pittsburgh. But Kyle blames himself, saying he was feeling under the weather on Monday, and then lo and behold! I got sick.
I didn’t get much work done in the entire time I was out of the office. Technically, I had an excuse, but I swear I felt that I was malingering.
Most of the symptoms are gone, now that it’s deadline day. But there is still some “legacy pain” and guilt. As I sit at my desk, typing and looking out the window, I am determined to engage in as little movement as I possibly can. Right now, I am competent at typing and not physically engaging in anything that requires me to do anything that does not require me to think.
I can also take pictures — just turn on the autofocus and let the camera set the exposure and focus for me. No brains required. Let’s hope no one notices I’m not giving my full attention to the paper.
But I want to give my full attention to the newspaper. I want to provide that “refrigerator journalism” I mentioned last week — at a time I did not believe there would be any obstacle preventing me from doing that, from being that.
In the meantime, here’s a simple exercise to maintain public health and good journalism at the same time.
Step one: See Lee Zion walking toward you.
Step two: Cover your face and say “Aaaaaaaah!!!” really loud, to alert other people that there is an infected male within close proximity.
Step three: Turn and run in the opposite direction, really, really fast, while shouting, “I don’t want cooties! I don’t want COVID cooties!”
Step four: Renew your subscription to the Chilkat Valley News, so you will be alerted as to any future possibility of Lee Zion being sick.