The Sight of Chronic Illness
Moments of awareness and struggle in the experience of Long COVID
My firm hand holds
the slamming bathroom door open again
On the hard white toilet seat
I see the pills —
brightly colored boxes,
lying in days for wait,
Full to the brim
Sunday ones in purple,
Saturday is pink,
Did I take them yet?
I cannot locate that memory
in my foggy brain
Outside the bathroom window
tracks appear in the newly fallen snow —
Coming and going footprints
etched in yesterday and the day before,
softened by the winter sun
A towering black bear
was in my vicinity
Poor thing looked like it was still breathing
when it collapsed onto the frozen floor
My old injections
lie tossed into
an ominous box
marked CAUTION
Biohazard highlighted
on durable plastic -
My beauty routine abandoned
in a zip-lock bag -
by fingers pricked for blood
Purple for Sunday, orange Monday
I am too weary after these colors —
will my bed stay undone?
My frantic pace of household tasks
runs only in my head
my body refuses to exert —
adding to my
on-going vulnerability
Yesterday I struggled with the matches,
trying to light a warming fire
The smoke drifted back
to my bathroom
and I could not do a thing to stop it —
choking on its fumes
The days of chronic illness
stretch out —
too many quick paces
behind me and ahead,
in an endless maze of days
lived on half-speed,
while I try
to pull my life
up a handicap ramp
I woke up this morning
listening once again
to the voices in my head.
Does anybody know me, really -
I really cannot tell.
c. Triada Samaras 2025
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