Well, it finally happened. I’ve joined a club in which I had attempted to avoid membership for the past two-and-a-half years.

To paraphrase Groucho Marx, I really did not want to join a club that would have me as a member — especially this particular association of individuals. After all, it’s not exactly an exclusive organization, as the group has nearly 91.5 million members from across the nation — and growing.

You guessed it. I recently tested positive for COVID-19. After months of faithfully wearing face coverings, maintaining at least 6 feet of distance from others in public settings and washing my hands, and in spite of receiving two doses of vaccine and a booster, I let down my guard and the COVID bug bit me.

I awoke one morning a couple weeks ago with a burning throat, nasal congestion and slight thumping of the head. This was a few days after I had attended a midweek show by 1980s sleaze rock bands Faster Pussycat and L.A. Guns in a sold-out performance at a packed Charlotte nightspot.

One of the guys attending with our trio of headbangers called the morning after the show to let us know he had taken a COVID test, revealing he had become the latest victim of the form of coronavirus called SARS-CoV-2.

While appreciative of the call, I was not overly concerned. I had been around numerous friends and family members who had contracted COVID-19 and had successfully avoided catching it myself.

Apparently singing along loudly — and probably off-key — to dozens of bluesy hard-rock stompers with hundreds of like-minded souls in the cozy confines of a crowded club finally gave the virus a chance to worm its way into my respiratory system.

I will admit that I had become a little cavalier. I don’t mean I had foresworn allegiance to the University of North Carolina and jumped ship to the University of Virginia; I remain a vertically challenged Tar Heel. But I had grown a bit cocky, thinking after being double-vaxxed and boosted that surely I must be immune from an infectious disease that has affected the majority of the population.

Obviously, I was not immune. And stop calling me Shirley.

So, upon awakening with a sore throat and aching head a few days after nearly going over the edge while letting it rip and tear with L.A. Guns and babbling on with a first-class ticket on a nonstop with Faster Pussycat, it was time to use one of those government-issued antigen rapid test kits.

Sure enough, 15 minutes after enduring a matching set of self-performed nasal swabs that felt like I was getting a prostate exam through my nostrils, then swirling the swab in a vial of magical testing liquid and depositing drops of possibly COVID-tainted nose juice onto the test card, the results were in. The dreaded double lines of positivity had appeared.

“Well, dammit,” I muttered. “Looks like I’m in the club.”

Later that afternoon, I visited the weekend “sick call” hours at my family health care provider. There, I received instructions to isolate for the next five days, along with a prescription for Paxlovid, an antiviral therapy medication.

Just a day into the meds, I discovered one of its potential side effects — diarrhea. Apparently the way this drug works is it helps you expel the COVID-19 virus through the process of pooping. A lot. I felt my system was so cleaned out I might as well schedule my next colonoscopy. Rectum? Dang near killed ‘em!

In all seriousness, I am thankful my symptoms were relatively mild. I’m glad the vaccinations and booster previously received had lessened my chance of becoming seriously ill. I was relieved to realize by the time I took a second test that you don’t have to shove the swab into brain-tickling territory after all.

And, while I won’t be revisiting my early-in-the-pandemic habit of glaring at “mask-holes” and “spread-necks” wandering around mask-free and ignoring social-distancing recommendations, I intend to do everything I can do to avoid becoming a repeat member of a club of which I wanted no part.

Continue to be careful out there.

Bill Studenc, who began his career in journalism and communications at The Mountaineer in 1983, retired in January 2021 as chief communications officer at Western Carolina University. He now writes about life in the mountains of Western North Carolina.

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