The moment I tested negative for Covid after testing positive for almost two weeks, sympathetic messages began pouring in. “So sorry to hear you’ll be out and about again,” was the general sentiment expressed. Since my symptoms throughout the two weeks were mild, there were no health worries; all I had to do was avoid contact with people. Recovery, therefore, was not merely a piece of cake, but a piece of cake with ice cream and Redi Whip on top.

Testing negative meant showers, haircuts, changing from sweats into regular street clothes and, worst of all, rejoining the human race on a more or less full time basis.

   Sleeping in became part of the recuperative process, rather than a sign of further decline of the life force, as it had been previously. Since even the mild symptoms of coughing and sneezing managed to disturb sleep, staying in bed an extra hour or two was viewed more as taking care of myself, rather than proof of the utter lack of ambition it was usually associated with. Surrounding my spot on the couch with cough drops and tissues helped sustain an image of a man under the weather, but bravely holding up under adverse conditions. Having bowls of chicken soup brought to you as you sat there also removed the stigma of “persistent vegetative state” that was normally associated with your days on the couch.

   I passed the 5-day and 10-day check points with flying colors, testing positive both times and blissfully extending my isolation from the living world indefinitely. Acquaintances reported testing positive into day 12 and beyond, which gave me additional hope. One reported testing positive again after testing negative, providing a glimmer that this condition could last a lifetime.

   But just as the prospect of never having to appear in public again began to sink in came the devastating result of a negative test. I stared at the blank space on the test indicator trying to will a purple line to appear. Testing negative meant showers, haircuts, changing from sweats into regular street clothes and, worst of all, rejoining the human race on a more or less full time basis.

   At first glance, it’s an odd perspective for someone who enjoys traveling as much as I do. Until you consider that in all my travels, I didn’t really want to do or see anything when I got to where I was going. The first thing I’d do when I’d arrive somewhere was to check the schedules for when the next trains were going somewhere else. Carol once asked me what I was looking for when I traveled. When I answered “nothing,” she laughed. After several trips with me now, she’s realized I wasn’t kidding.

   But every silver lining has its dark cloud, and while we are free to travel again, there’s virtually no place to go, given the ever-changing Covid travel restrictions, to say nothing of air travel turning into a dystopian nightmare of arrested adolescence. So while having to sit tight has its own advantages for someone like me, I do miss my trains.

   And Carol continues to live with the fear of one day shopping for potting soil instead of new jeans for me.