For two and a half years I outran it, but it caught up to me last week.

I woke up Friday morning thinking I was coming down with a cold. The fact that I had lots of chest congestion (read, a not-so-dry cough) actually comforted me – at least it wasn’t COVID. I slept in and thought no more about it.

My husband, however, was pretty insistent that whether it was a cold or bronchitis, I should contact my doctor, who suggested I come in and be seen.

As a precaution they ran flu and COVID tests – and the COVID one came back positive. The doc checked my lungs, which were clear. I got my instructions for weathering this at home, and what to do if things got worse.

Which of course, they did, although thankfully not in a call-911 kind of way. Saturday I slept, and slept, and slept, and fought with a fever that finally broke in the evening.

A few weeks ago I was starting to take the pandemic with a grain of salt. I’ve been careful, given my severe asthma and other physical conditions. It was starting to feel like we were out of the woods.

Then an old high school classmate fell ill while visiting her grandchildren in Alaska, and within less than 48 hours she had passed away. Stacy wasn’t the first person I’d known who COVID took, but she was the one that made this hit home like a punch in the gut.

So yes, I’m following the doctor’s guidance – resting, pushing fluids, occasionally checking my O2 saturations, and taking the anti-viral medications she prescribed.

And I’m quarantining. According to CDC guidance, I should isolate through Wednesday. Then comes the next phase – five days of masking, and avoiding close contact with those at risk. Which cancels almost all our Christmas plans.

But Christmas isn’t cancelled – we’ll celebrate, over New Year’s, and beyond most likely. The Twelve Days of Christmas are just going to be spread out well into 2023. Feel that love coming.

Happy Holidays, my friends. All of them.