Rhode Island might be the smallest state in the country, but this place is simply unapologetic from day to night. It’s Saturday, approximately 7 am on September 11, 2021. I’m a recovering insomniac feeling the wrath of the night before that left me with burnt retinas. I had a god-awful sleep and, if I’m being honest, I don’t think I closed my eyes for more than 2 minutes.
What do you expect? You can’t get a good night’s sleep on a typical Friday night in Providence. You think New York City is the city that never sleeps? Fuhgeddaboudit. Tell that to the Thayer Street motorcycle brigade that hums their motors in hopes of catcalling college girls two times younger than them at midnight. That’s not even the worst part. The entirety of my time in my brand spankin’ new apartment has involved the same construction starting at 5 in the morning. The construction is so close that I actually made friends with one of the construction workers from simply opening my blinds. At least I know that if I ever feel alone, I can simply open my window up to be greeted by my non-English speaking companions.
Oh, and the neighbors screaming across the way from what you thought was a party being thrown? Yeah they didn’t shut up either, sick invite by the way. The temptation to march across the hall in my pajamas was at an all-time high. Luckily someone else was bothered by the fear of missing out and took matters into their own hands. Yes, I’m talking about the one of many skunks on Brown’s campus that broke into my apartment complex, not all heroes wear capes.
Ah yes, that 7 am wake up was sweet. The morning was bright with a solid 70-degree breeze that was creeping through my half-cracked window. It was reminiscent of the same morning 20 years ago before all hell broke loose. I guess September 11th has a tendency to mislead us with a good day ahead.
My nose has been burning for the past 48 hours, as if I took a spoonful of wasabi and shoved it down my throat. I feel so worn down without motivation to do as much as lift my head off my pillow. “This is the best way to wake up before a 90-minute lacrosse scrimmage,” said no one ever. It’s this type of adversity that really bodes well for the entirety of a student athlete’s college experience.
Aside from all this, the morning routine is plain and simple. Checking my phone and seeing that there’s 20 plus unopened emails is my new love language, especially the Healthy Verily account that is so desperate to know if I’m alive and breathing. There’s nothing quite like going through a “check all that apply” symptom survey and submitting “none of the above” for each question. No, I’m not on the brink of death. So why should I even address my ringing head that’s completely congested and scratchy throat I have persevered through for the past 24 hours?
I finally get out of my bed, drink the occasional pot of coffee I doused with half a creamer bottle, and munch on a crumbled Kind Bar that laid on a bed of fruit and yogurt. Instead of a typical grandpa’s sit and read of the morning paper, my go-to is always a verse of the day from my Bible app and then the newest edition of “Today@Brown.” Huh, an 82 percent increase in Covid cases on campus has been confirmed within the past seven days? Don’t worry, they’re all asymptomatic. Meh, if it’s not me, why should I even be remotely concerned?
Departing for the two-minute trek to the athletic fields has officially commenced. It always starts with the warm welcoming of a Kelsey Shea smile waiting in the elevator to pick you up, because just like girls having to go to the bathroom with a buddy at a party, Kels needs me to hold her hand and help her cross the street for any lacrosse practices.
I constantly have a bone to pick with Kelsey. She always leaves temporary tattoos on my arms after practice. Of course I am referring to the absurd number of bruises that make my skin tone blue, purple, and green. As a defender, Kelsey loves leaving her mark (both literally and figuratively). I mean she is a captain; she has no choice but to do so. Of course me being an attacker, I avoid going against Kelsey and rather than apologizing for the hits and bumps that are simply illegal, you’d think she would apologize, right? Nope. A casual “Suck it up Gab, you bruise like a peach!” is her response.
Preparing for the scrimmage took longer than anticipated. I was in the locker room suiting up in the pinny I own covered in blood stains and while doing so, caught my hair on the bathroom stall door. Not to mention, I was also battling the constantly spammed calls from random numbers that made my phone jump off the wazoo for 10 minutes straight. At this point I’m really questioning my existence and really wish I had a hard copy of “Ned’s Declassified School Survival Guide.”
Stepping on the turf and actually having the opportunity to play a real game is sacred these days. As a junior, I have half a freshman years’ worth of athletic experience from missing out on two seasons. And the kicker? I’m referred to as an “upperclassman.” I have yet to experience an away game and have to pretend to assert dominance on
freshmen and sophomores, when unbeknownst to them, I have the same confusions about the season as they do.
Continuing on with the trend of today’s misfortune, I regret to inform that my team was absolutely demolished by the other team. I don’t know what hurt more; losing, the check that left a swelled-up golf ball on my left arm, or the wrist that wore my Apple Watch. Not that I was checked it or anything; I just had to keep slapping it to turn off the ringing that persisted from yet again, more prank calls from numbers I am probably going to block.
It was a hard-fought scrimmage from both teams, leaving everyone sweaty and smelling like according to one of my teammates, “a wet dog.” However, I heard this comment and simply couldn’t comprehend it. “I can’t relate,” I said. “My nose has been burning all morning and can’t even smell it. Guess I have corona haha!” Yea, let the film scratch marinate here for a minute. Let’s just say this is the last off-color comment this story has to offer. Brace yourself, shit’s about to hit the fan.
I was in so much pain after the scrimmage that I was craving an ice bath that would succumb my entire body in frost bite. Of course, I had to walk a good five minutes bare footed on the cement and sidewalks to get to the nearest bath that was inevitably closed. I guess that’s okay, at least I was stopped by President Paxton and her dog, Cooper, on the trek back to the locker room. I wish Cooper Paxton got to decide on whether my last season could’ve been cancelled or not. When I petted him, I told him to put in a good word to his mother. Can’t blame a girl for trying.
After arriving back to the locker room, I discovered that the showers were of course out of service, which left me no choice but to shower at home in my lavish off campus apartment (yes, the same one that can’t accommodate my sleep needs). Since I’m heading back toward Andrew’s, a spontaneous overpriced yogurt bowl has to be secured. I’m not on meal plan, so the very thought of even walking into a dining hall this semester had yet to cross my mind. What better way to celebrate the worst Saturday morning in a while than with a guest appearance in a place I haven’t been in since freshman year? Not to mention in broad daylight looking like I just walked out of a Peloton class drenched in sweat.
I finally understood why this was the first I stepped into Andrew’s in a while. The line was FAT. How was I supposed to hush the rumbles my stomach made in hopes of catching my attention? It was a valiant effort from it though, but my phone’s constant badgering officially made me crack. WHO IS CALLING ME NOW?
The one call that I actually had the energy to answer had a name on it. My trainer was calling. Did I not submit a form? Why on Earth is she calling me when I was just at the fields? If it were that important, she would have taken me aside. Since time was slowly going by on the Andrew’s yogurt line, maybe whatever she had to say would fulfill my need of entertainment.
Upon answering the call, I was mid-completion of my yogurt concoction. I felt bad having to tell my trainer some of my order…“Hi Kendall, how’s it going – Wait just a sec – Yes, I’ll take some honey and extra strawberries thanks.” What I thought would be a friendly conversation quickly turned into an exchange no one ever wants to hear, especially in the midst of a highly populated dining hall.
“WHERE ARE YOU RIGHT THIS INSTANT,” Kendall screamed at me. I mean did she really have to make her voice blare like I was on speaker? When asking her if she could hold on for a second while I settle down and mix my yogurt bowl at a table, her voice started getting frantic. I mean spit it out already, the suspense is killing me!
Well, after her next sentence, I think it’s safe to say that not every story has a happy ending. She screamed at me: “YOU. HAVE. COVID.” I mean ouch. She couldn’t have asked how my day was going or what I was up to for the weekend?
I don’t know who was more alarmed by her words, the two short dudes behind me who overheard the call and abruptly got up from sitting at the table next to me, or the actual person that had corona. Yes, that being me.
The funny thing was that I was in so much denial that I started pleading my case saying I didn’t have it since I had no symptoms. Then again, perhaps I shouldn’t have read the “Today@Brown” statistics that showed the number of asymptomatic cases had increased by 82 percent increased. Instead, I should have opened the test result I received at 6 am this morning telling me I had tested positive. Swearing to my trainer that I had a negative test persisted, trying to change her mind on the news she broke. I mean how hard would it have been for her to say: “Gabby, you don’t have Covid. Why? Because you said so.”
One question remained with me after hanging up the phone with my trainer. Why was she the one to relinquish the news to me instead of Health Services, which is what’s supposed to happen? Well, after reviewing my missed calls and recollecting on the
annoyance I’ve had with over-the-phone pranksters all day, let’s just say I’ve had this virus longer than I’ve been awake and people attempted to inform me…
I really didn’t know what someone was supposed to do right when they find out they’ve been diagnosed with the virus responsible for being the deadliest pandemic in history. I mean, this thing just passed the influenza pandemic of the early 20th century with a higher death toll.
Since I could not be bothered with the stress that was sure to ensue, I simply sat in the corner room of Andrew’s in complete isolation, put “My Way” by Frank Sinatra on full blast to really feel the magnification of my situation, and simply ate my yogurt bowl. Ahh, peace at last.
The undefeated streak of negative tests was breached and the ego I expressed toward this virus was humbled at last. It really was reminiscent of the same feeling I got when my brother acquired Boardwalk in Monopoly; game over, there’s nothing else to do but surrender.
Don’t take this the wrong way, but if someone had to get the coronavirus, it had to be me. Not once did I give the virus any credence for its destruction, no way this thing was real. How is this beast still up and running, hasn’t it taken enough? A freshman college experience? Gone. My best friend, personal confidant, also known as grandma? Gone. The entirety of my sophomore lacrosse season? Gone. And just because I never believed in its power, let alone refuse to receive a vaccination until Brown’s ultimatum, it was time the virus seized the final thing I had left: my pride.
I finished my yogurt, savoring every last second taste I may or may not have within the next couple days. It was now time to alert the authorities, or as some people call her, my mom, on the breaking news. When I told her of the illness, she did not even bat an eyelash, responding in a way that made it seem like I lost a peewee soccer game and came home with a participation medal. “Ahh okay, that’s unfortunate. Well, that didn’t take long,” she huffed at me. “Okay, I’ll get the Amtrak and ferry ticket, see you home in four hours.” What do you mean “see you at home?” Thayer Street is my home, now I have to be nomadic? I can’t just leave like this. I just had my first week of class. Not only that, but my lacrosse fall season just commenced. God really does have a sense of humor. Five months of being on Long Island during the summer wasn’t enough, so luckily for me he was gracious enough to bless me with a solid ten days extra.
Well, after telling my unphased mother of what transpired, it was time to tell those who really needed to know: the potential contacts. This elite list of people included the following: my boyfriend; three roommates; Kelsey Shea; Christine and Cooper Paxton (tried emailing her, hope she sees it eventually?); and my coach who would alert the teammates I just had full contact with at practice less than an hour ago.
My boyfriend was the first one I called, but, of course, no answer. After spamming his phone like mine this morning, I started to head out of the dining hall. Fully masked out in public and still maintain that post-practice glow, I think I saw just about every single human being enrolled in this school.
Like I mentioned before, I was known for my distaste for covid and anything it stood for, including mask mandates. Therefore, when people saw me walking down Thayer Street with a mask on, some were confused, but others were quick to realize what
was going on. All except the one person that I wished understood what was going on: my boyfriend. The one time I see this kid on a walk by, it’s when I have full blown corona. He finds me and attempts to give me a hug, but I quickly back up. “DON’T TOUCH ME,” I shouted. Pretty sure people mistook him for attempted assault with the way I delivered this shriek of fear in the middle of the street.
I simply started tearing up, sat on the curb and once again embraced the sense of defeat from this damned virus. You can take as many seasons of my lacrosse career as you want, but cutting off the embrace from loved ones is where I draw the line. Because of this stupid thing, I haven’t had a hug from my late grandmother for the past two years. Now I can’t even get one from a guy that gives them out like free candy every day. That wasn’t even the worst part. If anyone was going to be at risk from me acquiring this virus, my boyfriend is number one on the hitlist. I gave him the warning, wishing him luck with what’s to occur within the next 24 hours, and even devised an escape plan for if and when he was to receive a positive test tomorrow. Although a Marriot might be nice since he lives on campus, Ratty grab-and-go doesn’t compare to a homecooked meal on Long Island. Thankfully he was showed mercy, an absolute miracle that he tested negative.
My coach and roommates wished me well and safe travels for the journey I was to embark upon. The last contact to notify was Kelsey Shea, who was traveling the same time as me, currently in Philadelphia’s airport fresh from landing for a bridal shower. I felt like a federal criminal going on an Amtrak and Ferry with corona, but I guess just keep the mask on and stay away from everybody? I tried hard being as non-discrete as possible, but how could I when I was fully conversing with Kelsey, explaining I had a
virus in the middle of an Amtrak? Oh, and in the quiet car no less. Yeah, I would’ve kicked me off too.
Kelsey landed in Philadelphia just so she could immediately fly back to Providence after I broke the news. It was a race between the two of us now to see who got home first. Well, let’s just say a plane is certainly faster than a ferry holding a dozen cars across a bay.
Within four hours, I was back in my childhood bedroom, resuming online school like I never left it. My taste and smell disappeared instantly after my last taste of a Long Island Italian ice. I shoved an onion up my nose just to feel something. Nothing. At least I could save money on coffee creamer since black coffee tasted like warm water. I was bedridden for days, feeling so weak that at one point I felt like a corpse. How special am I to be probably the only symptomatic case the campus had at this point? Needless to say, my days of underestimating Ms. Rona were over. There was nothing else to do but lay, sleep and, like the Red Hot Chili Peppers say, “Dream of Coronacation.”
Sole Magazine