When I wake up, I don’t feel like I’m dragging myself out of quicksand. It feels more like the day after pulling an all-nighter for school. Like every single muscle in my body is tired, and like every single inch of my body slept hard. But at least I don’t feel like I’m trying to pull myself out of a bottomless pit.

I look at my watch. Only 8:10 on Friday morning. The earliest I’ve woken up on my own since I got sick. I’m sick, in a hospital, in quarantine, I think. Now that I’m feeling a little more awake, I can actually string together more complex thoughts.

Oliver is my next thought. Though he was never far from my mind, even when I was in the bottomless pit of being more tired than I ever knew was possible. Like I didn’t know the cells in my body could create a feeling of pure exhaustion like I’ve been feeling.

I look out at the hallway. He’s still sleeping.

I stretch, and I’m surprised at how sore I am. Who knew sleeping could be so painful. I run my tongue over my teeth, and I swear it feels like algae is growing on them. Gross. I can’t remember the last time I brushed them. I want to get my toothbrush, but the bathroom seems so far away.

A nurse comes in for a vitals check and looks startled when she sees that I’m awake. She puts the thermometer in my mouth, straps on the blood pressure cuff. The thermometer beeps first. “Ninety-eight-point-six. It’s normal.” She smiles at me.

“Normal? Are you sure? Can’t these things give false readings?”

“Sometimes. That’s one of the reasons we do so many vitals checks throughout the day and night. We’ll keep an eye on you, like we have for the last sixteen days.”

“Sixteen days,” I repeat to myself.

“What’s that, dear?”

“Nothing, just doing some math in my head.”

“Okay. Joey will be right in.”

“Could I take a shower first?”

“Sure, but I’ll need to help you. It’s been a long time since you’ve been out of bed on your own.”

“Help me shower?” I’m not used to people helping me; it’s supposed to be the other way around. I’m supposed to be the helper. I always have been.

“Yes, dear. Hospital policy. Don’t worry, you don’t have anything I haven’t already seen a million times.”

“No, it’s not that,” I say quickly. “I’m … not used to asking for help.” It’s hard to even say help out loud.

“Well, you don’t have to say it. Let’s get you cleaned up and get a fresh set of sheets on this bed.”

And with that I’m escorted to the shower, and when I leave I feel like a whole new person. I even get to brush and floss my teeth.

But by the time I get back to bed I’m exhausted, and I celebrate my cleanliness by promptly falling asleep.