My Pandemic Experience as a Lymphoma Survivor

11th chemotherapy infusion, November 2009

October 29, 2022

As I write this, my mother is far away in our homeland of Perú, visiting family for the first time since the SARS-CoV-2 pandemic began. I felt emotional when I hugged her goodbye before her trip. I wish I could’ve gone with her. Since 2020, I have ached to return to my ancestral homeland. I want to see my extended family before it might be too late.

Through social media and personal anecdotes, I can see that most of my family—my immediate family and the vast one in Perú—are exercising less precaution now from getting infected with this virus. I imagine many of them think I am excessive with my preventative behavior—if they knew about it. (i.e., not dining indoors; not hitting up the bars; avoiding air travel; avoiding elevators when possible; wearing high-quality respirator masks in any public indoor space; pissing outdoors to avoid public restrooms; utilizing a carbon dioxide monitor to assess indoor air quality.) I know my own mother thinks I am too extreme with my precaution—that I’m reading too much about SARS-CoV-2 and the multitude of effects it has caused in our societies.

Since the beginning of this pandemic, my instinctual response has derived from my experience as a lymphoma survivor in my early thirties (which was a long-ass time ago). That’s what so many of my friends and family members without a personal history of personal illness are incapable of viscerally understanding. I was seriously ill for over a year. I know what it feels like to wake every day to that reality. I know what it’s like to endure months of treatment. I know what it’s like to feel like your body has betrayed you. I know what it’s like to have a single overwhelming desire in life, which is to simply be normal again—to be completely healthy. I know that desperation, all too well, which is why I’ve had no interest whatsofuckingever in revisiting it during this pandemic.

Long COVID scares the shit out of me. On Twitter, I’ve read too many harrowing personal accounts and studies with troubling statistical rates concerning Long COVID and its detrimental effects. I’ve dealt with plantar fasciitis for nearly ten years. Recently, I’ve grappled with mild obstructive sleep apnea. An inflamed plantar fascia or frequent headaches and exhaustion from sleep apnea are enough to put me in a grumpy mood. If those symptoms last a few days, it can bring me down.

At age forty-three, I’m so blessed to have the physical ability to sprint and leap and play with our spirited toddler son. My dad didn’t have those abilities when I was a kid. I’ve never seen him run because he has multiple sclerosis. That’s why I’ve never taken my physical abilities for granted, like when I’m tearing around the house as my son gives chase, or when I’m darting around my in-laws’ backyard and crawling underneath tables to hide from my nieces. I would be broken if that was taken from us, or if my cognitive abilities slipped after a SARS-CoV-2 infection.

Most people have forgotten we’re dealing with a novel virus. We’re only beginning to understand the long-term ramifications from SARS-CoV-2 infections. At this juncture, Long COVID may be incurable. I don’t understand why so many—including my friends and immediate family members—are so willing to risk that for remnants of the life we used to have.