‘Twas the week before Christmas … and I had just whined in last week’s column about getting everything done.

My mother always said, “If you’ve got your health, you have everything. You’re healthy, so what is your problem?”

Fast forward to this past week. We were driving home from an Erie afternoon outing when the sore throat started. Not one of those annoying scratchy ones, but its big brother, the razor blade variety of sore throat – that dares you to try and swallow. Oww!

The rain turned to heavy snow, with each unplowed mile sketchier for Dear Richard behind the wheel. And my multiplying razor blades begging for something warm to sip and soothe. Owooh!

Finally at home, the hot chocolate helped a bit, but too soon became too painful. I chose bed. The morning will be better, I thought.

The morning was worse. When the coughing began, Dear Richard scouted out the Dayquil. Adding aspirin to that orange goop kept my throat pain and cough tolerable. I flopped for the day.

That evening, I thought: If I go to bed with aspirin and Nyquil, I’ll be better in the morning. I have to be. Tomorrow is my biggest speech and book signing of the season – in Ellicottville. Their publicity has been great – I can’t miss this one.

I laid out my outfit for the speech, and set my purse, portable oxygen, and sales supplies by the front door. With my book stash in the car, and a full gas tank, I was ready to go. I felt virtuous. But I felt terrible, then terribler, then terriblest.

Night-owl that I am, nevertheless, I crashed into an 8:30pm bedtime.

The next morning: pounding headache, fever, no voice, and M-I-S-E-R-A-B-L-E. Hoping against hope that it would miraculously clear, I waited two hours and things got worse. I gave in, called Ellicottville and croaked my apologies.

Upset, I called my daughter – so she would hear me and feel sorry for me. “Have you

tested for Covid?” she said. OMG. NO. Not again.

She was right. I tested Positive. Aarrgghh! There goes the whole week before Christmas. And there goes the full house of eight for the holiday.

Then came the Paxlovid. The miracle drug they didn’t have the other two times I suffered this monster.

The next day, the children and I discussed Christmas, and of course they couldn’t come unless I tested Negative. Our hands tied, I cancelled the Santa brunch we were going to share with friends.

I cancelled my haircut.

I cancelled the roast I had ordered.

I cancelled our musicale evening.

I cancelled my pedicure.

Not a leg under me, nor an ounce of energy. You fellow Covid victims understand. Dear Richard fed and pampered me.

I didn’t bake.

I didn’t wrap presents.

I didn’t finish decorating.

I didn’t iron the linens for Christmas dinner.

But on Day 4, I thought I’m not going to die! I wasn’t good, but I was better. Then, on Day 6. I tested negative. Thank you, God! And thank you Paxlovid.

My stepdaughter from California kept her flight schedule because she had Covid last month and felt immune. Fortunately, I was negative when she arrived. A dear and highly organized creature, she wrapped presents, peeled potatoes, and vacuumed. She brought cheerfulness to the end of my cheerless week.

And so it was, that five wise children and grandchildren arrived from the East. And it was Christmas. With the gift of life restored and enough joy to make us appreciate just being together.

They never once mentioned the paper napkins.

Marcy O’Brien writes from Warren, Pa.