I’m not one for doctors. Then again, besides my wife—an avowed hypochondriac—I don’t know many that are. I guess it has a lot to do with the fact that my mother suffered a seizure, went to the hospital, and like checking into a Roach Motel (the brand name of an American bug trap), never really returned. For weeks on end this fall I had been experiencing intermittent headaches and fatigue—nothing a steady diet of aspirin wouldn’t take care of, I thought. Yet after enduring it for more than a month, I succumbed and scheduled a Covid test.

This was nothing unusual, even for me, after traveling non-stop for the duration of the summer, taking a total of 14 flights from New York to the UK, and then repeatedly traversing Europe from June through August. Each entry (and reentry) necessitated a swab shoved deep into my nasal passage into what felt like my frontal lobe.

If you haven’t yet been probed in such a fashion, which I suspect most of you have by now (or will soon), it’s not the most pleasant of sensations—to put it mildly. My oldest son was infected early in the pandemic and, as a result, my other two kids and I were among the first to undergo testing at Lennox Hill Hospital in March. At that early stage of the virus’ spread, you couldn’t just walk in but needed to call in a favor with someone personally connected to the medical facility to gain entry. In our case, we were lucky to have help from a family music industry friend.

In the “Covid room” of the hospital we were all pretty nonchalant, joking with the nurse and having a laugh until the first giant Q-tip was abruptly thrust into my brain which caused my fist to uncontrollably lash out into the unsuspecting doctor’s thigh. If that wasn’t embarrassing enough, it happened again when he rammed it into my other nostril. Sobering as that was, before I could barely recover from the assault and battery, I got the bill which came to a whopping $7,500! Had I known that beforehand, I would have watched others get nasally poked on CNN from the comfort of my own home.

Which brings me back to October 2020. At that point, I was already a Covid test veteran, and though I never became quite used to the discomfort, I certainly knew what to expect, and somehow managed to refrain from lashing out at any more physicians. In the midst of a Sunday speed walk in Central Park, taking a break on a park bench due to continued unexplained tiredness and recurring headaches, I phoned my general practitioner Dr. Primus for a visit the following day.

Other than what I already described, there were no further symptoms. My temperature had been tested at a restaurant a few days before (and was fine)—the new norm in a year when that word has all but lost its meaning—and I had zero congestion or difficulty breathing.

That evening I had a dinner with my best pal Mickey, a property developer, who happens to be a youthful 82-years-old—he is about the only person on the planet who actually makes me feel young. After what turned out to be a two-hour fast walk in the park that Sunday, I didn’t think anything of the following day’s appointment. The next morning, I awoke with the usual throbbing head pain I had grown accustomed to and didn’t pay much heed to anymore.

I had a meeting at my house with one of the art world’s most noted and established art gallery owners (let’s call him Godfrey) but it crossed my mind to cancel as I wasn’t feeling 100% myself. I went as far as writing an email to that effect, then second-guessed myself and deleted it, as it wasn’t all that easy to buttonhole the dealer in the first instance.

As a precaution, I wore a mask when Godfrey entered the house (though I later removed it); he was also wearing one throughout—a stylish textured number with a round plastic device in the middle, the likes of which I saw someone nearly miss a flight after being refused entry onto a plane wearing one. As it turns out, those face protectors (with vents or valves) propel your breath outwards expelling respiratory droplets that can reach and infect others. How selfish that he was sporting that model—but not surprising for my profession.

When the doctor subsequently arrived to administer swab #13, I was a time-tested veteran, penetrated as much as a street…umm, sorry for my inappropriate humor…anyway, I relayed that I had no telltale signs such as an elevated temperature or struggles inhaling and thought nothing more of it. Later that day, viewing a house with a real estate broker and Mickey (again), I got a call from Dr. Primus, notifying me that I was indeed Covid positive.

Without missing a beat, or speaking a word, I swiftly exited the building and headed home, immediately phoning Mickey from the street informing him of the bad news and began notifying others I had come into contact with over the preceding days and weeks, especially Godfrey who I had only just met that morning. I felt acute regret, as if I had contracted a sexually transmitted disease and now had to break the news to previous lovers.

When I managed to reach Godfrey, he grimly told me how perilous and awful the situation was as he’s in his late 60s and had a preexisting lung condition that he repeatedly told me, again and again (and again) that in all probability he wouldn’t recover from. After reminding me that I had removed my own mask mid-meeting, he added that he had to immediately close his gallery for two weeks and begin his quarantine and that of his staff. Between him and Mickey, I felt I had just committed an unspeakable double manslaughter—I was nauseous with remorse. It occurred to me that this might be an ideal time to revisit my shrink.

The following day, Mickey’s daughter phoned in a frantic state insisting I visit her GP for a confirmation of my diagnosis—the only doctor in NYC she declared, that had the ability to conduct a molecular polymerase chain reaction (PCR) test. I guess being married into New York real estate royalty comes with its medical perks. Now for a quick Covid lesson: PCR tests are a more precise test as they detect the genetic material present inside a virus particle as opposed to an antigen test, which detects one or more specific proteins. Are you with me?

Dr. Primus insisted he had enough of my brain on his swab to achieve two positive antigen results, which he determined was unequivocal enough in his mind. That didn’t do the trick for Mickey’s doggedly determined daughter who, after I refused to leave my house, sent someone over for yet another round of tests at my expense—of course. I think by that stage, my overall Covid test expenditure approached six-figures. Of course, I had it. Mickey, who by nature is much more relaxed than his daughter—though that’s not a difficult feat—remained calm. The following day he was negative, and five days later, praise the lord, negative again. Being negative never had such positive connotations.

Meanwhile, Godfrey said he would wait for five days before being tested and then repeat the procedure again after another five days to allow for the incubation period. Every day I emailed him to see how he was and though fine, his intransigence never abated. A few things were consistent throughout our daily correspondence—he didn’t show any symptoms, nor did he make the slightest effort to inquire how I was.

After two weeks, I couldn’t contain myself any longer (me being me), and wrote to him: “You might have asked ‘are you ok?’ once. It’s not like I exposed you with mal intent—I was without symptoms all along other than headaches and congestion the last week (after I already had Covid). I had no fever just days before I saw you and never throughout.” He has still never bothered to ask…

In the end, not a single person I came into contact with got the virus thankfully. My oxygenation rate and temperature were normal for the duration of my illness. Days after my results I lost all sense of taste and smell. Three weeks later, November 2nd, a day before the election, I had a negative antigen test but still had traces in another PCR test. But I also was positive for antibodies. It’s all so confusing. By now, I’ve lost count of many times I’ve been nasally violated. Even though Dr. Primus was Trump’s personal physician and still works for his hotel chain, he gave me the green light to vote despite his awareness that I was leaning to the candidate that amounted to the lesser of the two evils (i.e. not Trump).

Nearly a month after my last negative antigen test the headaches and fatigue I experienced weeks before officially contracting Covid, persist. I still don’t have my full taste back, though many would argue I never had any to begin with. To date, I still can’t smell a thing—never did I think I would live to see the day that I’d miss some of New York’s most horrid stenches (I won’t get into details)—but I do. I never bothered with another PCR test—according to the CDC I was past my initial symptoms long enough not to present a contagion risk to others.

What a bizarre illness that no one suffers in the same way, nor is anyone quite certain of the lasting effects. They already have a name for persistent sufferers: long haulers. It serves me right for my careless attitude—I never used hand sanitizer before or after. But I did take solace in avoiding its more serious symptoms and, more importantly, being let off the hook by my shrink due to an extreme bout of contrition. Though I was initially hesitant, I’d jump at the chance to take the vaccine as soon as it becomes available because Covid is no walk in the park, fast or slow. I need a nap.

Kenny Schachter