We tend to make sense of sickness by ascribing levels to it, like medals in Olympic boxing: There’s featherweight “I’m under the weather,” a welterweight “ghastly ill.” And then there’s the super heavyweight, an opponent that actually scares you. Few people have to face off with this kind of illness. I have. Which may be why, as I scan through the daily news about the coronavirus, I tend to skip the stats on how many have died, the ventilators we don’t have, the politics, the quarantines, the jobs lost, even the bread-baking. Instead, I find myself drifting into the minds of those souls strapped to gurneys in the hallway, encased in a macramé of tubes and wires, fighting for each breath. These are the ones facing the super heavyweight. Some of them will die. But the ones I think about are the ones who will survive. Because I’ve been there. I know that getting off the ventilator won’t be the end of the story. And I know that not being sick doesn’t mean you’re well.