Picture this: your college-bound offspring is due to return home for Thanksgiving break. Instead of an embrace, you’re greeted by an uninvited guest — hours before his plane lands, you test positive for COVID-19.

In the thrilling saga of my encounter with COVID-19 during Thanksgiving week, reality decided to outdo fiction. A rollercoaster of tasteless feasts, disappearing Wi-Fi signals, and a medical marvel involving the enigmatic Paxlovid. Grab your popcorn (or in my case, a flavorless substitute), because this tragicomedy practically writes itself.

It was Saturday night and my youngest and I hit the town, but my nose was having its own party with Kleenexes. Sunday morning, my body screamed, “Surprise! Aches for everyone!” Convinced it was just aching from my rock-and-roll weekend, I planned to power through Monday like a superhero with a sneeze.

Fast forward to Monday, and my body was staging a full-blown rebellion: runny nose, body aches, and my head doing its best jackhammer impression. Staggering to the kitchen, I discovered I was running a fever. I grabbed Tylenol, called in sick, and crawled back into bed.

Hours later, my mom texted me, “COVID?!” Positive results faster than instant coffee. Second test for dramatic effect? Same speedy positivity. I opened windows, then VIP’d myself into the master bedroom. Seven days of lockdown — call it a “suite retreat” with a side of disbelief. The intensity of isolation was instantaneous.

My son’s visit still could have been marked by joyful FaceTime calls and shared family moments online. Instead, my side of the house became the Wi-Fi Bermuda Triangle, with signals vanishing faster than pumpkin pie at a dessert buffet. Our internet had stopped working entirely.

As the “IT Department” for my household, I stood by a window for a 1.5-hour-long conference call with “Vladislav.” Vladislav doubted my tech prowess, no doubt thinking, “Does she even know her router from a toaster?” And in a plot twist, I patched through my husband and Vladislav seemed instantly relieved to have a man on the line.

Triumphantly, we fixed Wi-Fi — everywhere except the “isolation zone.” So, while the rest of the house basked in the glory of internet enlightenment, I remained in my Wi-Fi dead zone, the unsung heroine. (Next time, I’ll wear a router-shaped tiara for extra tech support flair!)

COVID was a blockbuster with fever, aches, headache — the whole cinematic ordeal, not the “hard cold” experience many friends had. I was grateful my friend Diana urged me to call my doctor and request Paxlovid.

The unsung hero of my COVID tragicomedy: Paxlovid. I felt relief within 12 hours of my first dose. With a fever of 102 threatening to turn my body into a makeshift sauna, Paxlovid was the superhero of antiviral medications. If this had been a sitcom, Paxlovid would be the quirky sidekick, stealing scenes and saving the day in the nick of time.

COVID threw another curveball, now in the form of a tasteless feast. The day before Thanksgiving, while eating dinner alone, I lost my sense of smell and taste. At the beginning of the meal, it was there. By the end of the meal, it was gone. Our cranberry sauce, a family-treasured recipe, became nothing more than a bland prop in my Thanksgiving chaos. Eating felt like rehearsing lines of punchlines that never landed, and the only taste I could savor was the irony on my flavor-deprived tongue.

Seven days in isolation — a masterclass in napology. I tried reading, but my brain staged a protest. My eldest played piano outside my door; isolation serenade, anyone? My family downloaded Netflix spy movies for me on my phone. The movies provided me with my secret agent training.

Like a spy in a plot twist, I unraveled my COVID mystery. I had played the lead in “The Careless Chronicles.” Four years of avoiding the virus, and then, bam! Even James Bond couldn’t have predicted this. The fact that the government is no longer collecting data made it easy to think that coughs and sneezes in public couldn’t be COVID.

And in the grand finale of my COVID adventure, I bid farewell to my son and tested negative just hours after his departure. I couldn’t help but marvel at the absurdity of it all. Thanksgiving Break turned Monty Python episode — cue “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life!” Grateful the family dodged the virus, hugged modern medicine, and embraced supportive colleagues. More time off? Yup. My body’s playing the long game of recovery.

So, here’s to the unexpected plot twists, comedic chaos, and the hope that, in the next episode, the Wi-Fi signal remains strong, the food is flavorful, and the only positive is a newfound sense of humor.

Until then, stay safe. Vaccinate. Test if symptomatic. Then raise a masked glass and hope that the next holiday special comes with a side of normalcy.

 

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