The metallic, crinkly Pop-Tart wrapper stuck to my fingers as I ripped open the package. Crumbs fell onto my gown. I quickly scoffed half a tart down, hoping the doctor wouldn’t come into the room to witness this embarrassing ordeal.

The artificial, cardboard texture of the Pop-Tart is faint consolation for the gravity of this ER visit. Not that I’m dying, but the culmination of five months of suffering and an uptick in post-COVID complications led me and my Zoom doctor to believe it was a prudent choice to present to the emergency room.

I never eat Pop Tarts, but who am I lately, anyways?

An Ayla without a restaurant life, without a musical community, and creating a new vision of a future with the changing tides on a weekly basis.

I ponder the current circumstances while munching on the Pop-Tart, eyes fixated on the hospital clock in front of me.

7:36, just about dinnertime.

Pop tart for dinner? The idea, to me, seems horrific enough to warrant a trip to a mental institution, let alone the ER.

I throw the other half away. Hunger suddenly evades me.

The doc comes in. Typical post-COVID diagnosis: long-term complications that haunt its victims for months to come. The coronavirus is a bitch of a virus, leaving long-lasting physical and mental scars that keep its victims wondering if good health will ever return. Are the chest pain, inability to take a fulfilling breath, and concussion-like mental fog going to become the new normal for the next 6-12 months?

There are no answers.