Positively optimistic

This week, I planned on blogging about Betty White, who would have turned 100 years old on January 17.

She died peacefully in her sleep on New Year’s Eve after suffering a mild stroke on Christmas Day. A sad way to end yet another tough year. 

Seemed everyone was hoping she’d hang on just a little longer. 

Ahead of her centennial year, Betty opened up to People magazine on how she was feeling about turning 100. It was weird seeing the magazine’s gushing cover grace store aisles after she had passed.

No. 1 rule of good journalism: Don’t write something as if it has happened when it actually hasn’t. (See Chicago Tribune, Nov. 4, 1948: Dewey Defeats Truman.)

Anyway, whether she played Sue Ann Nivens, Rose Nylund or herself, Betty was a gem. Guess she had the last laugh on all of us.

According to Betty, being “born a cockeyed optimist” was the key to her upbeat nature. “I got it from my mom, and that never changed,” she told People. “I always find the positive.”

Of course, the comedy legend also cracked a joke about the secret to her long life: “I try to avoid anything green. I think it’s working.”

RIP, Betty White. You were loved. And thank you for being a friend.

Wish I could be more like Betty and always find the positive. It isn’t easy being optimistic by nature.

Sometimes, though, all you can hope for is being negative.

Which I was Saturday after waking up with a nasty sore throat and the timbre of a tuba. Of course, my first thought was, “It’s COVID.”

I’m fully vaccinated and boosted. Was this a breakthrough case? A term I despise because it diminishes the efficacy of vaccines.

To be certain, I took a home test on Saturday. The one we had was Abbott BinaxNOW, the rapid do-it-yourself home test where you swab your nose and it takes about 15 minutes to display results on the test strip provided in the kit.

Luckily, Rebecca found one at a nearby Kroger. There are few to be had in the metro-Detroit area.

For nearly two years, I had dodged the bullet.

We’ve been so diligent: quarantining during lockdowns, scouring groceries after they sat in the garage for days; airing out snail mail and packages; getting vaccinated and boosted, yet still masking up inside stores and restaurants (even when it wasn’t required) and adjusting holiday plans to avoid unprotected family and friends.

It was my turn in the barrel.

Frankly, I was more worried that if I had the virus, I’d infect Rebecca. Then she’d have to isolate, and I’d have to fix her three square meals a day for 10 days, take care of the dog, do laundry and damn near pretty much everything else. Who needs that?

What a relief when Saturday’s home test was negative. A single red line. I seriously choked up with relief. This must be what it’s like taking a home pregnancy test and waiting for results. Almost.

Still, it’s amazing how your entire well-being improves knowing you’re not infected with a disease that’s killed more than 850,000 Americans.

That is, until you start feeling worse the next day and even worse the day after that. My fever spiked, the tuba throat turned into a nasty dry cough and runny nose, along with major fatigue and body aches.

Classic Omicron symptoms. I slept. A lot.

Then on Monday, we took a second test.

Positive. Crap.

On Wednesday, I had a “Tele-Health FaceTime visit” with my favorite internist, Dr. Jami Small. Even she doesn’t want to see me in person and risk getting this crud. I don’t blame her.

I washed my pekid face, combed my bed-head hair and waited for her call. Sort of like straightening up your house before the cleaning person arrives.

Tick-tock. She was 15 minutes late. Finally, my phone rang.

“Hey, doc,” I said, appearing more chipper than I felt.

“Well, you don’t look terrible,” she said.

I don’t look terrible? I’m a prisoner in my own home on a tele-visit, and The Rabbit Died! (Google it, millennials.)

Nonplussed, I related a detailed timeline of my symptoms. The good doctor cut me off mid-sentence.

“This is definitely Omicron, a breakthrough case of COVID. Fortunately, it’s ‘mild’ COVID because you’re vaccinated and boosted. So, likely no hospital, no death. You’re good,” she said.

“Most importantly, STAY AWAY FROM REBECCA! We don’t want her to get sick,” she added, wagging her finger at me in living iPhone XR color.

I’m good? Most importantly? We don’t want her to get sick?

“Um, yeah. Rebecca’s fine. No highly contagious coronavirus would dare inhabit her Jack Daniels-infused system,” I said, emotionally smarting.

“That’s funny. Maybe you should try swabbing your nostrils and gargling with Jack,” she said grinning and twirling like a toddler on her faux leather doctor barstool. “Oh, and you have to isolate for a full 10 days to make sure Rebecca doesn’t get sick. Take care. Bye!”

I swear she was still twirling as we hung up the call.

Meantime, I will remain isolated in our upstairs bedroom. The one with no TV. (My bright idea awhile back.)

It’s like suburban solitary confinement. I stare out the bay window like a dog waiting for an Amazon truck to arrive. Or UPS. Mail lady’s late again today.

I go back to my iPad, hunting for something to watch on Amazon Prime Video, Netflix or HBOMax. A bottomless pit of nothingness. Why are we paying for this wasteland?

Note to self: Text Rebecca to cancel all streaming subscriptions. And I need more Kleenex and Ricola drops.

Between loads of laundry and feeding the dog, Rebecca leaves a tray of food and beverages at the top of the stairs just outside my bedroom door. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. She texts me throughout the day to check if I need anything, and emails me stupid pet trick stories and TikTok videos of singing babies.

It’s weird. I am Anne Frank with social media.

Even Maddie’s wearing a mask now: It’s a K9-N95.

You knew that was coming.

Like Betty, I’m lucky I haven’t lost my sense of humor. Or my taste and smell.

It’s nearly 5 p.m. “What’s for dinner tonight?” I text my beloved.

That gray bubble with three dots appears on my screen. She’s typing.

“Something green.”