My husband has been sick for nine days now. His alarming symptoms include gargantuan extended coughing jags that could wake the dead, possibly the neighbors and certainly his wife sleeping in the next room to escape the dreaded droplets being expectorated. A slight fever comes and goes, worsening at night. Bottom line: He feels like shit, has been listless and lacking energy, and the constant sneezing and wheezing adds to his misery. (And mine.)
Naturally a call to the doctor was made. Actually several calls, all of which which resulted in being put on hold for as long as forty minutes, listening to the vapid recordings until a receptionist answered and promised she would tell a nurse his symptoms who would then talk to a doctor and someone would call back when Hell freezes over. That's the state of private medicine today; imagine what it will be like if the government takes over.
When Mitch finally was granted a visitation to a medical facility, he was immediately given a Covid test. It was negative, but so what -- he was still sick as a dog. A return trip to the doctor a few days later when he seemed to be worsening involved another Covid test. Still negative, and still sick.
Today he is going for a third visit to the Urgent Care associated with our family practice. The nurse told him on the phone he must have a Covid test before entering the building. That will be test number 3. He could have lung cancer, bronchitis, pneumonia or bubonic plague, any of which might worsen and kill him, but apparently what matters these days is whether you die from Covid-19 and thus increase your state's numbers, possibly forcing bars and restaurants to close.
The good news is that you die of something other than Covid, schools can remain open. But it's likely people will still have to wear a mask at your funeral.
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