Summer FLiRT

After five full summers among us, COVID-19 has settled in once again and become, well, a FLiRT. That amusing technical acronym is the name given to the latest variants, which now account for more than 75% of the new COVID-19 cases in the United States. There’s consistently been a bit of a seasonal uptick in summer and winter, kind of like our property taxes.

For the last year or so, it’s the same symptoms but different variants, yet still COVID-19. Called FLiRT due to the technical names for its spike protein mutations, which include the letters F, L, R and T, FLiRT is a subvariant of last winter’s dominant strain Omicron, and is driving this summer’s COVID wave.

Best to ask Mr. Googly for any further explanation. Way above my expertise, as you may have guessed.

Unlike some of Michigan’s post-Labor Day temperatures, the virus continues to rise and pack a potent punch. Experts know this because of high levels of coronavirus found in wastewater in 44 states and the District of Columbia, according to the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Unfortunately, COVID wastewater levels are “likely growing” in several states, including Michigan.

No kidding.

About a week into our first getaway of the summer over Labor Day, I started feeling like crap. Sore throat, cough, cold, headache, chills. Shit shit double shit.

We’d been around more people in seven days than we had since last Christmas, but it hadn’t occurred to me that this was anything more than a summer cold or some kind of 24-hour bug.

To be safe, and because that tiny voice in my gut I aways listen to told me so, we drove to nearby Holland Urgent Care. Sure enough, my symptoms tracked, and the COVID-19 test was positive.

I felt terrible, not so much for me, but also for Rebecca and our host, Bonnie, a woman of a certain age who doesn’t need to be around sick people. Not that anyone does.

Urgent Care took us right away, checked my symptoms and said I had a fever of 100. The doctor swabbed my nostrils well into Michigan’s Upper Peninsula for a COVID-19 test. Exactly 23 minutes later, she confirmed it was indeed COVID-19, adding that I should isolate for three to five days or until I felt better, and then wear a mask in public or when around others indoors.

Me: “Will I need a prescription for Paxlovid?”

Her: “Nope. Not necessary.”

Me: “Should we tell everyone I’ve been in contact with?”

Her: “If you want to.”

Me: “Excuse me? If I want to?”

Her: “COVID guidelines are much different now. It’s been five years. We treat it like the common cold.”

Rebecca: “Huh? I’m missing some football for this.”

What a difference five summers makes, eh?

In a spring Gallup poll, about 59% of respondents said they believed the pandemic was “over” in the United States. Also, the proportion of people who said they were concerned about catching COVID-19 has been generally declining for two years.

Even the CDC has changed its guidelines for 2024: Stay home and away from others, but there’s no official timeline for how long. Wear a mask when you’re around others indoors. Use caution up to five days after you begin to feel better.

Long gone are masking requirements, social distancing and building closures. A very good thing, obviously. No more lengthy quarantines, wiping down groceries or airing out snail mail in your garage.

Instead, we have chosen personal responsibility and the honor system to show consideration and do right by our fellow citizens.

Remember how well that worked during the pandemic?

Though honestly, I still wouldn’t hug me now.

Thank goodness for scientific progress and less deadly strains, but I remain skeptical. Treating COVID-19 as a common cold seems unscientific and oversimplistic. I mean, the common cold doesn’t kill you or land you in the hospital on a ventilator.

What the heck do I know? I’m the fool who’s infected.

No point in tempting fate with this once insidious, deadly virus that took the lives of more than a million Americans, including a few people we knew personally. Tragic. God rest their souls.

Rebecca and Bonnie contacted most everyone we had seen since our arrival, including some new friends who will likely lose our numbers after this news. Alerting them seemed like the least we could do — common cold or not — and the right thing to do.

I’ll reserve moral judgment about those who make other choices. A little inconvenience is not a tragedy.

Per no doctor’s orders, I kept my bad infected self sequestered in the rental’s lovely guest room to prevent any further spread of my cooties. So far, so good.

It’s Sunday, and I can honestly say I’m on the mend. I was feeling almost human, enough to sit on the porch to get some Vitamin D sunshine and inhale west Michigan fresh air. Oh, and watch the Detroit Lions defeat those LA Rams 26-20 in overtime.

On Monday morning, we packed up the Beast RV and drove 200 miles home with me as Reb’s lone, masked-up passenger. I slept most of the way.

There’s a part of me that can’t help but think “if you want to” has become the new “don’t ask, don’t tell.” I can still remember seeing those refrigerated morgue trucks all over the news in 2020. Unimaginable even now.

Because of the lives lost and those forever changed from the pandemic, I’m absolutely certain I’ll always tell you if I test positive for COVID-19 — and you won’t even have to ask.

Time to reorder some masks. Maybe lavender ones.