By Cynthia Toussaint, PNN Columnist

After four years of diligently following CDC guidelines to avoid COVID-19 like the plague, it finally caught up with me. And, like my doctors presumed, I now have Long COVID.

That being said, two months into what I was assured would be worse than a living death, I have to shake my head at how colossally the powers that be underestimate the toughness of women in pain.

After my partner John and I had to cancel a 2020 dream trip to Iceland due to my cancer and the COVID shutdown, we bunkered down because my doctors said I had no wiggle room with chemotherapy – and that likely saved my life.

When I had remission from cancer a second time in 2022, those same doctors shared that while the COVID virus might no longer end me, I’d surely get Long COVID, which would leave me barely able to breathe or move for the rest of my life. This was backed up by many articles and programs that I devoured. I felt doomed.

These were some of my darkest, most dire years – which says a hell of a lot. Already isolated for 44 years from profound disability caused by Complex Regional Pain Syndrome, I felt ever more the odd one out, still wearing a mask and saying no to virtually every invitation.

But with time, the expert prognosis wasn’t adding up – as I watched most of my friends with pain and other chronic illnesses get COVID, only to recover and return to their baseline of “normal.”

Iceland was still beckoning – it’s glaciers, waterfalls, active volcanoes, charming capital city, unique horses and white nights. Come spring this year, my desire trumped all else. I yearned to be amongst the living again, so John and I booked a trip for early June.

We followed the recommended CDC guidelines for travelers, only to land in Iceland sick as dogs. So much for playing by the rules!

Being out of country, we didn’t have any COVID tests, and because we weren’t on our deathbeds as promised, we assumed we’d picked up a run-of-the-mill flu bug.

Flinging off our high temps, chills and fatigue (to name just a few of our symptoms), there was no staying in bed slurping chicken broth and taking Tylenol for us. We muscled on through our trip – and fell in love with this other-worldly land.

Testing Positive

A couple days after our return, John took what I considered a pointless COVID test – and I was floored when he shouted that we’d joined the ranks of the infected by testing positive. More surprising, on day ten of what was supposed to be a worse-than-death sentence, I was functioning fairly well. I could breathe fine and was swimming most of my laps. No hospital, no ventilator, no ICU, no death certificate.

Yes, I’ll give the docs a point or two, if you’re keeping score at home. Eight weeks post-infection, I’ve developed the aforementioned Long COVID, which has triggered my chronic fatigue syndrome, accompanied by a litany of life-compromising symptoms that ebb and flow.

Sometimes I feel fine and other times I uncharacteristically fall asleep from post-exertion malaise. I’m burdened by debilitating migraines and dizziness, and am still hoarse and wonder when I’ll be able to sing clearly again. Still, unless something changes drastically, long-hauling didn’t come as advertised.   

So now I’ve moved from fear of the worst to hope for better days ahead. But with that hope, I’m still mightily pissed off.

I’m livid that doctors and researchers put me into a catastrophic, doomsday mindset during the pandemic. The picture they painted for people like me -- with high-impact chronic illness and a cancer diagnosis -- was black as ink, with no exceptions.

I lived accordingly with terror, dread, fear, high-anxiety and isolation-induced depression. Missed holiday events, get-togethers and no traveling rounded out the experience.

Not being around people, while going through cancer twice, was the apex of these dark years. That inhumanity strained my ability to heal when I needed it most.

Humans are social creatures and inclusion is how we’ve evolved so that we can feel safe, contented and well. Without connection, our mental health suffers, which is just as important as our physical health.

I’m now critically reassessing the necessity of my “bunkering years.” Were they needed? Or did I spend four and a half years of my hard-fought-for life alone for no damn good reason?

I recently met two lovely women, both with pain and autoimmune issues, who recovered from Long COVID in less than a year, no worse for the wear. I wonder why none of the experts told me that recovery was a possibility, even a likely one. Why was I only given the worst-case scenario? Safe to say if I’d had the facts, I would have poked my head out of the hole far sooner than I did. And when you’re still in the red zone with cancer, every day, every outing COUNTS.

While it’s super hard to watch friends and family recover quickly from COVID, while I trudge on sick and with no end in sight, we with high-impact pain know our lot is always a ton more challenging than normies. That’s money in the bank, a sure bet. Luckily, we’re experts at suffering and coming out the other side.  

But let’s not bury the lead. I’m freer than I’ve been in years. These days I’m doing less mask wearing, so bring on the intimate get-togethers in a cramped, under-ventilated house (ok, ok, maybe after the summer surge next to an open window.) Hugging, kissing and touching those near and dear are back on my to-do list.

Before COVID, John would joke: “I always know when Cynth’s worked a room – because everyone’s got lipstick on their face.” Going forward, look out for the high-gloss and ruby red.       

Whoa, Nelly! Let me be clear. How one takes on COVID is an individual experience – and I respect everyone’s choice. I know women in pain who’ve never put a mask on or vaccinated, and others who plan to mask-up for the rest of their lives while counting the days till the next booster.

We all need to do what makes us feel safe. And, like me, sometimes our choices change with time and information.       

My smile has a deeper meaning these days. Exiting my Y just after our return from Iceland, a friend I adore at the front desk, Solange, excitedly commented, “You look much better, Cynthia!”

I had to laugh, while sharing that I was still getting over COVID. When she quizzically stared, it then hit me. I wasn’t wearing a mask!

A moment of wow struck us both. I’ve known this woman for two years and we’ve shared countless conversations, but that was the first time she’d ever seen my face.              

Women in pain, we’re tougher than the rest. The doctors, the researchers, the experts, the “know-it-alls” always seem to sell us short, either under-protecting because they think we make a mountain out of molehill – or over-protecting because they don’t think we know what’s in our own best interest.

Screw ‘em. They don’t get us, never will. And a once-in-a-century pandemic isn’t going to knock us out. That’s something to smile about.   

Cynthia Toussaint is the founder and spokesperson at For Grace, a non-profit dedicated to bettering the lives of women in pain. She has lived with Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) and multiple co-morbidities for over four decades, and has been battling cancer since 2020. Cynthia is the author of “Battle for Grace: A Memoir of Pain, Redemption and Impossible Love.”