THIS BEGAN ON A RECENT SUNDAY with what felt like a mild urinary tract infection. No big deal, I thought. I can wait until the next day to call my doctor. I awoke the next morning, however, with a low-grade fever. It was natural these days to wonder if I had contracted the coronavirus. I drove to a nearby urgent care facility for a COVID-19 test. I would not have the results, however, until at least the next day. In the meantime, I inexplicably ignored the infection. While speaking on the landline that evening with friend and fellow pilot, Steve Maiman, I suddenly began feeling confused. I was having difficulty forming sentences and stringing words together. I could not convey my thoughts and began feeling delirious. I was really scared and ended the call abruptly. (Steve confirmed days later that I sounded as if I were in serious mental distress.) I then discovered I could not remember how to hang up the phone. My wife, Dorie, had just entered the room, so I asked her for help. She gave me an odd look and told me to push the red button. I instead kept pressing some other button and finally gave up in frustration. "What do I do with this thing?" I asked while holding out the handset. "Put it in its receptacle," she replied patiently. I could not comprehend what she meant, so I just laid it on a table, the dial tone continuing to blare from the handset.
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