PLAGUES

I. Running

II. Hiding

III. Surviving

IV. Between Heaven and Hell

I. Running

Outside of my bedroom window, a murder of crows land and traverse my front lawn. Their wings spread as they glide across the grass and move toward the street—it is empty and quiet, with all cars neatly parked in their driveways. For the crows, there is no sign of human life on this cul-de-sac.

As quiet as it is in this particular neighborhood, there is no escape from the confines of the city. Just a few miles in three directions are the 91, 710, and 405 freeways. In addition, the proverbial links and nodes that tie together every citizen of LA County are deep and complex, and made even more substantial by having one of the highest population densities on God’s green earth. It’s unfathomable that a vulnerability to our biology moves at light-speed across the logarithmic scale of interconnection of every person who calls this place home. Life still goes on.

I’ve always favored isolation. Never by choice, but over the years I’ve learned to embrace it and even long for it sometimes. I’ve found it a preferable philosophy to that of superficial aspirations in a world that is obsessed with political, economic, social, and sexual capital. But even I have my limits. In this moment, as everyone else was, I found myself yearning for some kind of human connection.

The crows spread their wings and flew away.

Sunday, November 29th

I exhaled, and took a deep hit of my inhaler.

I’ve battled asthma most of my life. I’ve kept it under control, and it was even dormant for 10 years until a flare-up episode in the fall of 2019 left me on the floor gasping for air, feeling like suffocation was imminent. Since then, I now have two inhalers, with one being a special low-dose one because the highly concentrated ones were fucking with my heart (and my heart gets fucked with enough these days).

I exhaled again, rinsed with some water, and continued on with my day.

I like to keep a clean house. If my surroundings aren’t clean, I get anxiety. What can I say? I have a high standard of living for myself! At the very least, my room, the kitchen, and the bathroom need to be clean at all times. That doesn’t always happen with my two roommates, but on each of my days off I bunker down and clean all the damage for the week so I can actually relax and enjoy my day(s) off in a clean home.

That evening I was scheduled to have a guest over, which made it even more imperative that the house be spotless. I guess you could say it was… a date! I won’t say what the date idea is, just in case you, reader, potentially go on a date with me someday and I can recycle the idea without spoiling the surprise. But I will say that it was a “cute” and “fun” idea that couldn’t possibly go wrong whatsoever. I will also tell you... that it didn’t end up happening.

“Is your date tonight, my dude?” asked Rich, my roommate.

“HELL yes my dude,” I responded enthusiastically. “I got some plans with a very cute girl tonight. Y’know, nothin’ fancy, just some regular stuff.” Modesty is my specialty!

Next thing on the agenda was to set up another mini speaker in the kitchen in the opposite corner to set up a restaurant-like effect. However, the bunk-ass WiFi was having some issues so I went to the living room and crawled under the TV to reset the router. I was in a rush, and hurriedly got up to get back to the kitchen, fucking SMACKING my head on the corner of the TV in the process.

I looked at Rich in disbelief, who saw the whole thing happen.

“FUCK!” I yelled, wrapping my head in my arms. “That ain’t right.”

“Oh shit my dude,” Rich said. “You got up like there was nothing there.”

“Right?? Fuck… !!!.”

“Lmao”

I shook it off and continued cleaning the house.

__________________________

Some time ago, I started jogging around my cul-de-sac in the evenings. It seems like the only (safe) way to stay in shape these days. On this particular night, I was filled with a bit of angst and needed a little therapy. I ran until I couldn’t run anymore. I sat on my porch afterward, winded and trying to catch my breath, waiting for the negative emotions to dissipate. Once that happened, other things crept into my mind (as they always do).

Essential workers still bear the burden of this pandemic. They can’t work from home. They can’t afford to stay home even if their employer lets them. The only choice is to continue to come to work, get overworked, and deal with the absolute bullshit of both the consumer base and managerial staff alike. Neither seem to be sympathetic at all to our plight.

Humans have adjusted, as they always do, to a society with covid-19. Or, perhaps, a better word is maladjusted. Yes, there are masks and social distancing now. Real life application of those things are suspect at best. Absolutely no one is actually “social distancing.” People still don’t know how to wear a mask properly. No one wants to see your chin diaper, please put your ugly-ass nose away.

Since March, I’ve been doing my absolute damn best to dodge covid. I wear gloves while I work, changing them out multiple times a day, washing my hands all the time, and I’m always wearing a mask.

“Why do you wear a mask in the breakroom?” one of my homies asked me.

“Cause I don’t trust these fools, soldier. Always gotta keep your guard up. That’s my advice to you, young man.”

“Tru that my brotha. I appreciate you imparting your wisdom.”

“Don’t mention it, pal,” I said. “Now scram, you’re crowding my airspace.”

“Copy that, captain.”

Over the past week, the week of thanksgiving, my place of employment was recording door counts of 500+ people each day of the week. It was sickening. I mean, fuck us, right? Let’s just let all these dirty-ass people into costco simultaneously! What could possibly go wrong?

I wasn’t too concerned at the time though. I’d managed to dodge the ‘rona this long, there’s little to no chance it could get me now, especially with how careful I’ve been.

This turned out to be very wrong.

II. Hiding

I haven’t been living my life. I mean, what can we do? I go to work and I come home. A few weeks ago I’d hit a creative wall when it comes to music and I had been unable to come up with any good song ideas lately. So with that in mind, all there really was to do was to work, come home, clean the house, and maybe drop into The Warzone later that night with the boys via the magic of PlayStation.

Social media has been as lit as it’s ever been, it seems. Too many people on The Gram seem completely oblivious to the fact that there’s a pandemic going on, but at the same time, I can’t fault them for wanting to live their lives, and not wanting to live in fear.

It only takes a casual observer to note the common thread here, however. The healthy and the wealthy are out there living their best lives. Meanwhile, the coronavirus ravages low-income neighborhoods. A plague on the poor, a capitalist’s wet dream.

But I’ve been hiding, too. Hiding from the pain. Hiding from the suffering. Even before the pandemic began, perhaps I was hiding from something within myself. Hiding from the pressures I’d placed on myself long ago.

Maybe we were all hiding from something. Such a fantastical thought, I admit, but perhaps the purpose of its very inception was to make me feel better about myself and my ambitions which have found themselves turned into inhibitions.

The media is sure to point out what’s gonna happen to you if you get covid. It’s always ugly. It’s a slow and painful way to death if you have any pre-existing condition. If it bleeds, it leads, right? I stopped following the news last summer. I canceled my subscription to the LA Times. I’d had enough. “Journalism” is at its lowest point. The level of fear-mongering has gotten out of control. Yes, yes, we’re all gonna die, I don’t need to be reminded.

Suddenly, the reaper was at my door to remind me himself.

III. Surviving

Thursday, December 5th

I worked on Monday and Tuesday, then my two off days were Wednesday and today.

I’d noticed my throat was a little scratchy. No big deal. Probably allergies or something, or this new cold weather.

I carried out my business as usual. Played guitar for a few hours, rehearsing a bunch of my songs. Except, something was off.

I couldn’t focus. I was forgetting lyrics. I was forgetting chords. To my own songs. I never do that. I’d realized that my concentration had been off lately, with some questionably timed headaches this week. In that instant I realized something might be wrong with me. I might have a concussion. Again.

I picked up the phone and called Teledoc, a 24/7 service where you can speak to a doctor within 15 minutes. It’s a good way to get some attention for an issue or malady that is time-sensitive but not quite serious enough to burden the urgent care or the ER.

I spoke to Dr. Armstrong, one of the most respected doctors in the Teledoc system. He told me that I did have a concussion, and that the only thing I can do is to take it easy and rest. He offered to write me a note for work, but I declined.

Friday, December 4th - 12:32 A.M.

I’d just gotten off Warzone. It’s been a few weeks since me and the squad have gotten a dub. It wasn’t right. We were in the middle of the longest drought of our respective careers. Disappointed, I stripped all the way down, put on a towel, and headed down the hall to take a hot shower (I prefer to take showers very late at night).

The second I finished and turned off the water, I began shivering.

That’s odd, I thought to myself. I get cold, but not that easily. This was out of the ordinary.

That trip down the hall back to my room felt like I was trekking through Siberia. When I finally got back to my room I put some clothes on and weakly slid into bed, bundling up under the covers, still shivering. When it finally subsided, I took advantage, closing my eyes and drifting off into sleep.

3:04 A.M.

Fuck. I was shivering again. Except this time, I was sweating like a motherfucker.

Oh God, no. I raised the back of my hand up to my forehead. I was burning up. But each time any part of me got out from under the covers it was attacked by freezing air. My blanket was damp with sweat. The temperature in my room was 70 degrees fahrenheit.

Shit. I tried to breathe through my nose to no avail. My airways had been clear as day not even 5 hours ago. Now, it felt as if I was breathing through a pillow.

I took a deep breath through my mouth. Thankfully, there wasn’t much obstruction there, if at all.

Just relax, I told myself. Try to get back to sleep. This will pass, this is nothing new.

6:12 A.M

Goddammit. I woke up groggy, but somewhat normal. I didn’t feel hot or cold anymore. I wasn’t able to fall back asleep, however.

I picked up my phone and opened up twitch to watch my favorite musician, Matthew K. Heafy, who is the lead singer and guitar player of the fantastic metal band Trivium. He goes live at 6 AM and 12 PM every weekday, so I was just in time to watch his morning stream as he performs a random list of Trivium classics. There was just one problem.

I couldn’t hold the phone in front of me.

I was weak. Incredibly weak. So much so that I couldn’t hold my phone up. As you can imagine, this was a huge problem.

I took a few minutes to gather myself and I picked up the phone to call in sick to work. There was no way I was going to work in this condition.

I sent a text to JC, my roommate, whom I was supposed to carpool with today.

Just a heads up my dude, I’m not going into work today.

Fosho my dude, he replied.

He didn’t think anything of it. He knows I had a concussion and assumed that I just needed an extra day to rest my head. Which was true!

Despite all my other symptoms, my focus and concentration was still off and my head still felt funny from the concussion damage I’d sustained not even a week prior. Fuck! I cannot catch a break!

12:48 PM

I still felt horrible. My body felt like it was withering away by the minute, and my mind was going with it.

Don’t panic.

Don’t panic.

Don’t panic.

It was finally time to admit that I had a problem. I called up my local urgent care and set an appointment for a covid test at 6:45 that evening. I locked myself in my room until then, slowly deteriorating both physically and mentally.

6:58 PM

MedPost Urgent Care. Thankfully there was no wait, since I’d had an appointment.

The doctor came into the patient room where I sat on the little bench that they have, struggling to hold myself up. He took a cue-tip and gave me notice:

”I’m not going to stick it very far up your nose,” he said.

“Okay.”

He wiped the cue-tip gently on each nostril, hardly getting in there at all. One second later he said “all done!”

“That’s it?” I asked incredulously.

“That’s it,” he said, and quickly left the room, leaving the door open for me to leave.

That ain’t right! I thought to myself. What if it was a false negative? This dude barely put it in there! I hardly even felt it? Is this right? This ain’t right. This can’t be right.

I mustered up all the strength I had to drive home. Looking back, I can’t believe I drove home in that condition.

8:42 PM

I can feel it happening within myself. I was going through it. (Or maybe it was all in my mind?) Or maybe it was real, and I was on an escalator to the great beyond. Needless to say, I felt horrible. Weak. Powerless.

I took my temperature: 100.4 degrees Fahrenheit.

FUCK!

Saturday, December 5th

A day later, and still no word on the results. I kept checking my phone like a madman for any missed call or email. I sink back into my bed and pray for this to be over.

I told my roommates about what was going on. They were wondering why I hadn’t left my room in two days, and were worried. I told them my symptoms: fever, congestion, extreme fatigue, dizziness. But I was still hopeful that I didn’t actually have covid and I was just regular sick. Because I have asthma. And this virus destroys people who have asthma. If they survive, they’re never the same.

“Have you lost your taste or smell?” JC asked me.

“Not yet,” I replied weakly. “But if what I have right now isn’t covid, then the real thing is gonna fucking kill me.”

Sunday, December 6th

The phone rang. MedPost.

“Hello..?”

“Justin? It’s Dr. Shumaker.” (My favorite doctor at MedPost).

“Oh hey doc, how’s it going.”

“I called to ask you the same thing. What symptoms are you feeling right now?” He asked me.

“Fever, congestion, extreme fatigue, and I just got a cough yesterday.”

“Well… that makes sense. ‘Cause your test came back positive.”

My heart dropped into my stomach. “...that ain’t right,” I replied.

“What I’m gonna have you do is just… vegetate for 14-20 days, however long it takes for this thing to pass. Quarantine, stay away from others of course, take some Tylenol for the fevers. If you have any questions, feel free to call me. I know you have asthma, so keep taking your Flovent, it’s very important that you do so, and if there comes a point where you feel like you can’t breathe, I need you to go to a hospital right away. Any questions for me?” He finished.

“Umm… uhhh….” I was stammering. I was kind of in shock. I had covid. I had the pandemic. It got me.

I gathered myself quickly and asked “Doc, I’ve really been going through it the past couple of days. It is possible that the worst has already passed?”

He pondered a moment before responding.

“It is possible that the worst has passed. But it’s also very possible that you could get worse. As I said, just keep an eye on your symptoms. And if you feel like you need to go to the hospital, you absolutely should.”

“Alrighty then.”

“Take care, Justin,” he said.

When I got off the phone I was shaking. I couldn’t help but wonder if I was on my deathbed.

When I gathered my wits about me, I placed a call to my parents, a text to my roommates, and another call to my employer to let them all know that I had tested positive for covid-19. The pandemic. Y’know, the one that shut down the entire global economy. The one that had killed over 300,000 people to that point. Even those who recover can have long term heart or lung damage.

Yeah, that virus.

And now it had me.

_________________________________

IV. Between Heaven and Hell

In stillness and silence I lay helpless. Unable to do a damn thing. I was the most dangerous person you could possibly be around. And yet, I was so weak I couldn’t stand. With my fever burning.

I was breathing through my mouth, my nose was out of commission.

In, out. In, out.

Do not panic.

Do. Not. Panic.

I coughed, and I began to wheeze. I could feel my airways contracting. My oxygen capacity was leaving me.

Fuck……………………. fuck fuck……………………………..fuck…………………… I’m going down…. and down……. and down.

My bed is in the corner of the room. I lay on the corner of the bed, almost hugging the wall. Staring at its pattern. Falling into it.

I feel myself going down… and down….. and down.

_______________________

My life has been strange.

Out in a world that was different from what I’d hoped it would be.

I remember my upbringing, then elementary and middle school. The seeds of my melancholy. My brooding sense of un-belonging. Kids can be cruel. People can be cruel.

It always sparks something in me when I hear someone say they’ve known one of their best friends since kindergarten. As a kid I never lived in one place long enough to make long-term friends like that. That’s something I’ll never have. I suppose high-school will have to do. And I made some good friends in high school, and I should be grateful for that. I’ve been back in LA for 8 years now, and thankfully with this stability I’ve made some very good friends since then as well.

_______________________

I can feel my lungs on the verge of asthma. They wheeze, in and out, working to keep me conscious. I pray it doesn’t get any worse. For now, I can handle this. I don’t need a machine to breathe. I don’t need to go to the hospital. I’m okay. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine....

Nonetheless, the anxiety creeps in. I always think the worst; I’m a worrier.

All I can do is pray and wish this away.

_______________________

My latest EP, The Warzone, has been an incredible critical success. But commercially, it flopped … hard. Hardly anyone really engages with the music (the analytics tools prove this). I mostly don’t care. But it does bother me a little bit because I know I’m the best songwriter out there, and the music I’m making is better than my competition. When I get wrapped up in this mindset, it makes me wanna just quit. I spend too much time obsessing over music anyway. Maybe it’s time to put it down for a while.

Sometimes I feel like I can’t even enjoy music as a casual fan anymore. I’m always busy analyzing the mix or the song structure or something stupid like the kick drum compression to actually enjoy it. And when I think of the bullshit at the top of the charts it just pisses me off.

Yeah, I do this for myself, of course. But we all want recognition. We all want success. Anyone who says otherwise is lying. Humans want to be understood by each other. It’s a basic need.

I’m an artist. That’s who I am. But it feels like a curse. Sadly, I carry every quality of an artist, both good and bad. But my creative forebears have been feeling this way in every civilization since the dawn of time. Sometimes I wish I could be a regular person, with regular hopes and regular dreams. Go to medical or business school or something like all my college friends did. Get a high paying job and make bank. Give my grandparents something they can be proud of and make their arduous immigration journeys of the 60’s and 70’s worth it.

_______________________

I don’t even know what day it is anymore. The sun goes up, the sun goes down. I watch the weather change.

_______________________

When I was young, I had a weird sense of predestination that I would go to college at UCLA. And it came true! I’m so grateful for that.

What I don’t tell people is, in that same way, I always had this feeling that I would meet the love of my life in college. I suppose that remains to be seen. Or maybe my intuition is all just bullshit.

“What do you look for in a girl, Justin?” a co-worker asked me once. “Self-awareness,” I replied. “Kindness and consideration for others.”

I try to live my life the right way. One day that will be good enough.

_______________________

My family calls to check on me. I weakly answer the phone. Trying to sound normal so as not to worry them. Trying to act like I can breathe.

_______________________

If I were to pass, I’d leave behind my music. I’m proud of every album I’ve done. I write every song in hopes that my voice and musicianship will outlive me and transcend my short little life. I want it to touch people the same way my favorite artists have touched me.

I used to have hope in people. This past election cycle has taken most of that away. There’s a lot of people out there who are very stupid. They will be the downfall of us all. Dumb-fucked mindless Trumpers are only the beginning.

I wish I knew what the future held. This is the first time in my life where I can’t see the road ahead. And it’s terrifying.

I suppose I should just focus on getting better first. Then deal with everything else once I survive this.

________________________

I lived only with my thoughts in a place that transcended my earthly location. For everyone else, I no longer existed in their plane of reality. Somewhere during this time, I was moved. Somewhere I can’t quite describe accurately.

Somewhere between heaven and hell.

But one day, I returned.

I took my temperature: 98.2. My fever was gone. I could breathe. My mind was clear.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and moved around.

I walked outside and looked up to the sky, toward the shining sun. I realized that I had come out on the other side.