Day 8/9 of covid. Slowly there’s light at the end of the tunnel. My throat ache is softening, and although I still cough, it seems to hurt less. I am tired at levels I don’t recognize, but I understand this may last for a while. Although Rafa and Lara no longer have clear symptoms, they also both seem to still be clearing the virus as we speak. Rafa sleeps more than ever. He even voluntarily goes for an afternoon nap. Lara on the other hand, does not sleep, which could be either covid or this fucking heatwave that does not seem to end. She’s also bloody annoying and exhausting at the moment. We can’t seem to do anything right.
Covid is rough. Having two young kids to care for while all having covid is just bonkers.
The first couple of days were probably the best, if you can call any of this any form of good… We were just very sick, but at least the kids were also still okay with whatever we came up with. We were all weakened, and somehow found shared comfort in looking at a Duplo car together, or any bullshit kid play event thing. But after eight full days of being together in an attic apartment, literally under a boiling black tile roof, without any real option to go out (without crossing shared space and being a potential hazard to others), we are running out of ideas. I don’t want to watch Pepa Pig anymore, and if I have to read jungle book or the gruffalo one more time, I’ll turn nuts. If I have to do any of this for much longer, I’ll turn nuts. The small kitchen-livingroom is getting awfully awfully small. The heat is building up. I want to scream. We all want to scream. I just need to get out. We all need to get out.
Tomorrow will be the hottest day of the week. They say it could be 36 degrees out. I hope so bad that this fucking test tomorrow morning will be negative…