Getting to Day 5 with the Bony Dog

Luck seems to be a matter of working with reality instead of against it

The big bony dog next door sleeps in a raised cage during the day, often sprawled on his back with his legs splayed open, balls flopping in the heat. I think he begins barking at night when it’s his time to be let out and guard the place. He doesn’t seem unhappy. As Ghanaian dogs go, I think he’s got it pretty good.

On Saturday, there was a loose idea that someone would take me on a visit to a couple of the Oxford Houses here—a type of halfway house for people in recovery. But they didn’t appear, and I didn’t pursue it. I felt lethargic and let the day fritter away. I went for two walks, to see what the neighborhood was like. I finally heard calls of “Oborɔnyi!” from some of the kids. One girl calls my name, and I realize she was one of the students from the school I visited the day before.

Saturday evening I feel completely crummy. I have a mild case of the common complaint described here as, “I am running,” and some nausea. It’s familiar, I’m not worried about it. But in the night, I develop a fever and, weirdly, an aching in my bones, particularly my shins, that raises my anxiety a notch. I have fever dreams, waking up always with fleeting images of twos. Two staircases, two women, two loaves of bread, two vague something-or-other, like some demented Noah’s Ark.

On Sunday I tell Joe, the staff member who handles all sorts of hospitality needs, that I will stay in my room for the day. I feel a little guilty; I’m supposed to go to church with Father, but I just don’t feel up to it. I wonder if I am malingering just to avoid church.

The fever never gets terribly high and breaks early Sunday evening. I start feeling better. Then Monday morning, I wake up with a runny nose. Now I’m getting really suspicious, but self-will kicks in right away. I feel better, so maybe I just continue as if nothing is wrong and ignore the nagging in my brain. I don’t want to miss the festival in Kabile. I don’t want to miss going to Kabile entirely, either. I don’t want to change my plans. I don’t want to think about it. If I can just gloss over a little of this, and tell a little (white?) lie about that, maybe I can just go forward with what I want to do. If I don’t know the facts, I’m not obligated to act on them, right? 

Finally, I work through this denial nonsense and take the home test that I brought with me. It immediately indicates that I am positive for COVID.

I’m not surprised—the leg aching was so similar to what I felt after getting the second Monderna booster—but I’m sad and angry with myself over the whole situation.

I email the staff to explain why I am quarantined in my room, and reassure them that my symptoms are mild. I make up some projects for myself...how many birds can I identify through the bars over my window? How much better can I get at using the camera I bought earlier this year (there is only room for improvement there). Can I take a bit better care of my body? Can I do some editing and writing of documents to help Hopeful Way?

Sadly, to be honest, I mostly lay around and watch videos that are on my computer or that I can download in low-res from Netflix. I scroll Twitter, of course, looking for new juicy tidbits to distract myself, but Bruce Sterling and friends are playing with AI-generated images, feeding it a made-up word “crungus”, and I have a visceral aversion to the resulting images. The “Miss Minute” character in Loki, something I already had downloaded to watch during travel, gives me similar Pollardian willies. 

If you are plagued with fear and your mind won’t stop whirring, I recommend some Hemingway with his small simple sentences—the Nick Adams stories are good for this.

The CDC calculator says I can go out, masked, on Thursday [today!] if my symptoms have subsided. I contact Matthew and Stephen and send my regrets about the festival, but say I will try to come to Kabile later.

Tuesday morning, I wake up with a cough. It’s not terrible, but because I was such a terrible smoker, this is the stage of COVID that frightens me the most. I keep coming back to the fact that I feel pretty good, better and better. I realize that doomscrolling Twitter at all just fuels my general anxiety, so I stop. Mostly.

I know that I have options to talk to doctors, but all manner of inner objections appear—what is this resistance? I don’t want to be told I have to change my plans. I don’t want to be told I have to do anything. I don’t want things “on my record”. I realize it’s madness and get a grip.

I call the Kaiser Advice Nurse and get her reassurance that I’m doing fine, that there isn’t anything she would have me do differently if I were home. That rest and liquids are the most important things. She confirms the dates I can move about and travel—day 5 I can leave quarantine—giving me hope that I might still visit Kabile—albeit quickly—without extending my stay. Working through the dates, she says, “Well, obviously you got it there,” which answers the question everyone seems to have. I’m glad, at least, that I didn’t bring it here. I’m especially glad I got it early enough to be cleared for travel for my scheduled flights out. There’s an awful lot to be happy about.

I’m doing okay until Dan comes by to visit, standing outside my door for masked conversation, the first real conversation I’ve had in days. 

I feel like an idiot. A sick American is really the last thing anyone here wants. To be sure, they are caring in the extreme—Joe checks on me frequently, brings me meals and any incidentals I would like—but I know it creates an issue. There were times when I could have been more careful. I wish I would have been.

When Dan asks how this affects my travel plans to Kabile, though, I crumble into tears, and all of the feelings I’ve been keeping at bay tumble around me.

On the bright side, Dan has brought something I’d left in the fridge at their house—a container of cheese I bought at Brussels Airport, in case there wasn’t food on the flight (there was, and I never ate it). He also brings a bottle of carbonated apple juice, something I normally don’t drink, but it is like heaven with the cheese. 

Everyone is so kind. My luck continues: this is the perfect isolation room, I have everything I need. It’s going to be okay. If I do have to go to a doctor, I will get really good care here. Before I came here, I said that it was pointless to think of coming and to think I’d escape it without getting sick. This place is hard on an American body. I am like a gigantic soft pink infant waddling around, susceptible to hurting myself with stupid blunders. But I can take the direction of the Ghanaians, who are so kind to big baby Terrie, and try to be more kind to her myself.

I remember when new Peace Corps volunteers would come into the country—the contrast of seeing them next to volunteers who had been here for a year or more. The toughening that happened after a year was so striking to see in others. Those of us who were older seemed to get less of that transformation, and it fades after returning to the states. I wish I had a little more of it to draw upon now. 

I won’t be here long enough to develop anything more than a bit of tan (probably a masked one at that). I’m not especially sorry about that. If I wanted to stay in Ghana indefinitely, I could manage to do that.

I want to do right by my hosts. I want to visit Kabile. Then, honestly, I just want to get back to my doggie, drink tap water with abandon, and revel in a disgraceful abundance coffee and cheese.

What I want to do is not necessarily entirely up to me. So I’m working on acceptance, too. Today I can go out with a mask. I’ll see how I feel, and if things are good, maybe tomorrow I’ll go into Accra, and if it’s not too exhausting, I’ll buy a bus ticket for Sampa for Saturday night.

Dog doesn’t seem all that unhappy behind his bars. I haven’t been all that unhappy behind my own. But I’m ready to be out of this room. Glad it’s today.