You will read what you wrote, and you will cringe. You will delete most of it. You will swear you were temporarily insane. The intensity of the 4 AM panic will feel distant, like a bad dream.
I don’t know you. But at this precise, frozen moment in the night, we are the same. Your throat hurts? Mine too. You just coughed so hard you saw a brief flash of your ancestors? Welcome to the club. You’re wondering if the third rapid test you took was a false negative, or if this is just the new variant that feels like a hangover from a wedding you never attended? I’m right there with you. By now you’ve read the CDC guidelines. You know to call a doctor if you have trouble breathing. You know about Paxlovid and pulse oximeters. You know the difference between Tylenol and Advil. i wrote this at 4am sick with covid
But you are effectively alone. Your virus has built a wall of contagion around you. You do not want to wake anyone up. You do not want to call a hotline at this hour. You just want someone— anyone —to say, “Yeah. Same.” You will read what you wrote, and you will cringe
Then the chills return with a vengeance. The intensity of the 4 AM panic will
And yet, in the middle of this, you’re typing. Why? Because the alternative is lying motionless and listening to the ringing in your ears—a high-pitched tone that sounds like a mosquito with a philosophy degree, asking you questions about mortality you aren’t ready to answer. Here is the real reason people search for this phrase.