I want to tell her that I am hallucinating about koalas. I want to tell her that my chest hurts and I am scared and I cannot remember the last time I ate something that wasn't saltine crackers. But it is 4am, and she is 1,200 miles away, and all I type back is: "ok."
I wrote this at 4am sick with covid becomes a confession booth. You start typing things you would never say in daylight.
So if you are reading this from your own sickbed. If you are coughing into the dark. If you are lonely and scared and exhausted and you cannot remember the last time you felt like yourself—I see you. We are in this strange, feverish hour together, separated by screens and time zones and the peculiar isolation of modern illness.
Based on this metadata, the accompanying text likely contains:
Writing or composing while sick and isolated functions as a vital psychological defense mechanism. Psychologists note that expressive writing during times of physical distress helps the brain process trauma and manage the acute anxiety of isolation. i wrote this at 4am sick with covid
Stay in a separate room and use a separate bathroom if possible to protect others in your home. Ventilate: Open windows to keep air moving.
There is an inherent act of defiance in writing while ill. It says, "My body is compromised, but my voice is still functional."
But here is the thing I did not expect. Here is the confession I am almost embarrassed to make.
4:12 AM. Status: Awake. Sweating. Coughing. Current Vibe: Philosophical delirium. I want to tell her that I am hallucinating about koalas
When the fever spikes, your ego deflates. All the little anxieties that consumed you last week—the passive-aggressive email from your boss, the social event you overthought, the diet you failed—evaporate. They seem laughably small when your body is literally trying to cook the invader out of your cells.
In the last twenty minutes, I have had the following thoughts, which I jotted down in my notes app (unedited for your enjoyment):
If you are reading this and you are also awake at 4 AM—sick, anxious, or just lonely—know that you are not alone. We are the night shift. The fever dreamers.
Seriously. The pressure to “get back to sleep” creates more anxiety than the sleeplessness itself. Accept that you are now a creature of the small hours. Put on a podcast so boring it becomes a lullaby (I recommend one about the history of concrete). You start typing things you would never say in daylight
You reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. In the dark, the condensation felt like a secret language written in Braille. You took a sip, and for a second, the fever broke into a kaleidoscope. You weren't in your bedroom anymore; you were a lighthouse keeper on a very small, very purple planet. Your only job was to make sure the stars didn't get too close to the ground.
The sun is coming up. The fever will break. And someday soon, you will wake up at a normal hour, in a normal bed, and you will almost forget what it felt like to be this sick.
You are not going to learn a language, organize your closet, or reply to emails. Your brain is running on fumes and inflammation. Instead: