“I’ve never had COVID,” I said earlier this year to a friend who canceled our plans because she was down with it for the third or fourth time. “That seems unlikely,” she said. “You’re probably just someone who doesn’t show symptoms.” Although I wanted to believe that, I wasn’t so sure: “I’m still one of the few who wears a mask…” Living in Japan certainly helps with that; here, it’s quite normal. But even in the Netherlands, I wore a mask on the train; my visits are always short, and, as I reasoned, getting sick would just be a waste of my time.

And so, for four and a half years, things went well. The COVID self-tests in my drawer quietly reached their expiration date and then passed it. But when François got out of bed last week with a loud cough, I decided to throw the last one his way. Google had told me that false positives were pretty much impossible, only false negatives, if the liquid had dried up or the antibodies wouldn’t react anymore or something like that. After a bit of grumbling, he stuck the swab up his nose, and I dutifully swirled it around multiple times in the small amount of remaining liquid. Drip, drip… We didn’t have to wait long to see if the test would work because a big fat red line appeared almost immediately.

Oh shit. COVID in the house. Did I have it too? A week earlier, I’d felt really tired; maybe that was it for me? Or was François first, and my turn was still coming? I still felt fine, and François, who had also had COVID a few years ago, felt pretty okay too, aside from the coughing. Maybe my friend was right, and I was one of those people who didn’t get any symptoms?

Ha. No.

Two days later, I started feeling a bit off. In the afternoon, I had a slight fever of 0.5 degrees, but by that evening, the thermometer was hitting 38.8. My head began to pound, and my body was shaking with chills. Odd, considering it had been tropical weather in Japan for weeks. I had a fever and headache for the next two days. The day after that, the fever dropped a bit, but then the coughing started. Then came dizziness and nausea. The fever and headache are gone now, but I’m still tired and can barely smell anything. My passion tea from Starbucks suddenly tastes undrinkable because my mouth only detects sweet, sour, salty, and bitter flavors. Oh, and the biggest joke of all: my period decided to arrive a week early. (Hello, body, what’s that about?!)

Before I got COVID, my main concern was that getting sick would mess up my schedule. Especially in 2020 and 2021, when Japan’s borders were closed, and I wanted to be ready to jump on a plane at any moment, it was crucial that I test negative. COVID itself, oddly enough, didn’t worry me that much. Until now.

I haven’t felt this sick in ten years, and I have absolutely no desire, time, or energy to go through this every year. I couldn’t work for a week, which has seriously disrupted my plans for the coming period. The website project I’m currently working on, I actually wanted to finish before Charlotte arrives on the 19th to take photos together. My family is coming in October. So now I have to work really hard next week, while I’m still freaking tired. And I have no idea how long this will last.

In short: COVID is a bitch, and yes, I’m finding that out after four and a half years. Oh well. I hope I’ll be spared for another four and a half years after this. Ok bye.