On Sunday, April 18, I received my first AstraZeneca (Oxford) jab. (For my covid diaries, see here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; here; and here.) After a day or so, I started to feel very crummy with terrible headaches, fatigue, and irritability. Thankfully no insomnia. This lasted about twelve days. This past week I have been much better, especially daytime. Starting around 5pm, I often feel tired and hungry. The fatigue is no surprise because unfortunately, the partial insomnia has returned. In addition, I find phone and zoom conversations beyond twenty minutes still very exhausting. So, I spent my days on twitter and reading science fiction (I really admired the mixture of satire and sensitivity in A Canticle for Leibowitz).
On Wednesday, I decided to try to do some real work: to read and comment on a chapter by one of the advanced PhD students I co-supervise. Her topic is fresh, but the author she is working on very familiar to me. She is an excellent writer, so this seemed like a good test-case. Since I had read earlier versions of the material, I figured it would be a bit like returning to a familiar face. When I tried reading it in the morning I got nausea, and my brain was not processing what I was reading. I felt panic, doubting I could ever do salient academic work again. I was mystified anew about the fact that I can read fiction and social media, but not academic work. After fresh air and lunch, I tried again. And then I read the (four section) paper one section at a time in twenty to thirty minutes stints with rests (that is, time on Twitter) among them. For an impatient person like me this way of reading is not an enjoyable experience despite my pleasure at the PhD's obvious improvement.
Even so, that evening, fortified with a cheese and honey platter, I wrote up comments on the paper. I offered some distinctions, and referred to existing literature. I also made comments about organization and presentation. Because I could sense onset of fatigue, I offered fewer nitpicky comments than I normally would. I was too tired to re-read. But since I had spent a whole day on a task that ordinarily would take me about 90 minutes, I sent the email with comments apologizing for not responding to the rest (and important part) of the PhD's letter.
During the last four months, I had done some work related activity, but most of these involved logistical stuff (organizing exams for my class; organizing a team of indexers for my monograph; sending out emails to keep an edited volume going, letters of recommendation, etc.); and while often it felt like work, I didn't think of any of these as substantive intellectual labor. I had once or twice tried to start a new paper (based on ideas I had worked out in past lectures and digressions), but each time I realized I was not up to it. So, my comments on her chapter did feel like a small victory. But I was too exhausted to savior it.
The next morning, before the PhD had confirmed receipt of my email, I decided to re-read my letter. I I noticed a few typos, and uncompleted thoughts, but on the whole it looked like comments adequate enough for the purpose of giving direction and encouragement. Heartened, I opened a new word file, and typed in a title of a paper I had long intended to write. I started my introduction which would be the outline of the main argument. After ninety minutes I stopped because of great hunger and a strange fatigue. (I ended up having lunch very early.) After lunch I realized I could not return to work; I finished Dan Simmons' Hyperion, wondering if I should read Keats next.
While I have pulled out of other events planned this Spring, earlier in the week I canceled a talk at LSE later this month. It was no surprise to anybody involved, but a little bit died inside me. This invite had originally been planned for Spring 2020, but then we postponed due to the pandemic. At the moment I am unsure if I can attend (even by Zoom) the defense of one of my students later in May. My last planned event for the year is in Durham in June; that seems ambitious, too. So I just alerted them to the possibility of me canceling on them, too.
It's easy to give in to despair; I am still unsure about cognitive recovery, but I end the week with the glass half full. Did comment on that chapter, after all. I lead a pain-free existence surrounded by the comforts of life. When the sun is out, I read outside in the park or on quiet street benches. (I can't tell you how annoyed I am that Spring has been so cold here.) While I am still walled off from many of Mill's higher pleasures (music, arts, conversation), I am not suffering most of the time. Dogs say hi to me at my street bench, sniffing my books, and enjoying my petting.
My GP is fairly confident I should feel more or less recovered by the end of June (six months after my onset). Because this week is so much better than last, I believe her sufficiently such that I did start discussing my Fall teaching assignments with the teaching directors.
My life's field of vision is still quite narrow. The other day my wife noticed that I was reading my sci fi book with one eye closed. (For years now I would read without glasses reinforcing my sense of nearsightedness.) Covid has been so all-consuming, that my first response was is this another side-effect of my viral encephalitis? My wife laughed and said, 'no it's ageing.' Then followed a by now familiar explanation about decaying eye muscles and focusing. I realized she had explained the mechanism to me before, a few years ago, on a country lane during a Summer hike leaving Alfriston behind; but rather than feeling melancholy, I was strangely relieved to be reminded of normal, age-related attrition.
glad you are well supported and able to have a bit of perspective now and then that eases things some.
This might be of interest:
http://inthespaceofreasons.blogspot.com/2021/05/some-notes-on-having-nervous-breakdown.html
Posted by: dmf | 05/09/2021 at 06:13 AM