Early in the new year, you only knew of the coronavirus because of memes you saw on social media – silly memes depicting a Corona beer bottle with a lime backing away.
Today we are seeing our family through a computer screen. “Social distancing” is the new catch phrase, along with “flatten the curve” and “stop the spread.” We wave to our family through our laptops, yearning to reach through the screens for hugs.
At first you thought that it’s no big deal, maybe even an overreaction. There were hardly any confirmed cases, and you didn’t know anyone infected. You didn’t know anyone who knew anyone who’d been infected. You didn’t know anyone who knew anyone who knew anyone.
Slowly everyone starts working from home. You have conference calls with your kids screaming in the background, and you even feel a tinge of jealousy that your colleagues have grown kids and they aren’t stuck homeschooling while trying to work.
At first it’s kind of fun. The schools are sending videos of the teachers with messages for the kids. People in the community are decorating their windows with rainbows for hope. You drive around and try to count the rainbows.
Then they tell you to avoid the grocery store. So you spend 3 days uploading grocery apps and trying to grab a delivery spot, and you refresh the screen as though you are trying to get concert tickets. And you set an alarm for 1 AM to see if you can get on. And you finally get a “flexible” spot and are confirmed for a grocery delivery, and they will contact you for a delivery sometime between tomorrow and five days from tomorrow. And then you find out that many people in your neighborhood were expecting deliveries only to be cancelled.
So you go to the grocery store with a list a mile long, looking to stock up on enough food for at least two weeks. You don’t want to appear alarmist, but you put on a surgical mask (which you just happen to have in your kids’ dress up bin) and you wear gloves and you zip up your hoodie with a credit card and license in your pocket – you don’t want to carry a purse – more chances for contamination, and you hope for the best. And you are relieved that no one thinks you are crazy, because they are all wearing latex gloves and masks as well. You buy an extra container of milk to freeze. They have no chicken. Your regular marinara sauce is out so you try a new brand. They just got a toilet paper delivery – grab a package – limit of one – you don’t need it now but who knows if you’ll find it when you need it again. They have eggs – thank goodness – but you are only allowed to buy 1 carton, which will maybe last 3 days in your house. No hand sanitizer. They keep telling us to wash our hands, which are now dry and cracking. No Lysol wipes. No Clorox bleach. No yeast. No brown sugar. No powdered sugar – I guess everyone else also has the desire to bake. What else is there to do?
You come home with your groceries and your son runs to hug you. You hold your hands up to push him away – you haven’t washed yet, and for a brief moment your heart breaks, because you can just barely relate to the medical staff on the front lines who come home each day and sleep in their garages and basements, or even those who are living away from their children out of fear for bringing this disease home.
You wash your hands, strip down your out of your sweats, jump in the shower and put on new sweats - No need to look nice when you never leave the house. You empty your groceries, wiping down packages, and then put your reusable shopping bags in the washing machine.
Three days later, just as predicted, you run out of eggs. Still no hope for a grocery delivery, so you head up the road to 7-11 with hopes of buying a few cartons. There’s only 1 carton left, and your thankful that you only had to go to one store. You grab another container of milk, just in case. There are lines on the floor where you are supposed to stand back, allowing distance between you and the cashier. They have temporarily built plexiglass walls as a barrier. While you are there, you buy a scratch off lotto ticket. You’re thankful that both you and your spouse are still employed, but you also just read that another six million people applied for unemployment last week. As expected, the scratch off is not a winner.
As the weeks go by, you look forward to the daily briefing from the governor, not because it’s good news – it’s not, but you need a dose of reality between the Simpsons and Paw Patrol. The numbers are climbing – the people hospitalized, the people who have died. They keep postponing the date to return to school, but at this point, in your mind, you know that there will be no spring concerts, no proms, no graduations.
And you don’t necessarily hate this – of course you hate the circumstances – but you don’t hate conference calls in your pajamas. And you actually start to feel sad for your colleagues with grown children who they haven’t visited and grandchildren who they haven’t held. And yes, you are working and homeschooling, but you are also snuggling and reading bedtime stories. You are baking and building legos and playing board games and going for afternoon walks. And it’s hard to find the balance between work and school and play – you are so thankful that you still have a job, but are a smidge jealous of those who don’t.
You’re so done with cooking, so you order takeout. You place the order on the phone and give your credit card number. You drive to the restaurant to pick it up and find a bag with your name on it, sitting on a table in the vestibule. No human interaction required. No “have a great day.” No “enjoy.” They are thankful to still have customers and you are thankful to still have the luxury of not having to make dinner.
Most days have been rainy, and that’s good – who wants to be stuck inside on a beautiful day? On those sunshiny days, you see the neighbors playing in the yard, and your kids run to grab their sneakers, and you have to tell them no. They don’t understand social distancing. They don’t understand quarantine. You offer to take a walk instead, and so you walk to the quiet little playground that no one ever goes to. You approach and see that the gate is locked, and there is a “temporarily closed” sign, and your child falls to the ground wailing. This is all too much for us to understand – how can we expect our kids to? So you hold hands and walk to your secret little hill instead, and you climb up the hill and watch the clouds and you just hold each other. And your child cries in your arms and you stroke his hair and you wish that you could just let him be a kid and that this will all go away, and you worry that things will never be the same for him.
You watch the news. You are 50 miles from the epicenter and the epicenter is moving east. Times square is at a standstill. Broadway is shut down. The subways are running but no one is on them. The city that never sleeps is in a coma. Yesterday, 799 New Yorkers died. Nearby, field hospitals are being built. In the city, refrigerated trucks are holding bodies as the morgues fill up.
You open up your social media and too many times you type, “I’m sorry for your loss.” And you check the profiles of your friends who work in the field to make sure they are still symptom-free. You see your friends are sewing masks and scrub caps, because the healthcare workers don’t have enough protective equipment. You are praying for your friends and family who now are testing positive and getting admitted into hospitals.
There is nowhere to go, but you need to get away, so you take a ride to nowhere. You call your friend who’s been sick in bed for two weeks and you fear that she might be getting admitted. She’s actually feeling better today and her chest x-ray looks clearer. You breathe a sigh of relief and turn on the AM radio, just in time to catch the governor’s daily address, and for the first time they can confirm that the number of infected are down. You are so overwhelmed with all of life, and you are crying as you drive, and so you are forced to pull over. You’re not quite even sure where you are, but you pull your car to the side of the road and you see a little toddler playing in her front yard with her mom. Her mom is blowing bubbles and the toddler is trying to catch the bubbles and she is running around and smiling and laughing and poking at bubbles. And this little toddler knows nothing of quarantine and nothing of disease; she just knows Elmo shirts and bubbles and pigtails and her Mommy. And mom blows a bubble that flies around the yard, and floats up, up, up. And you watch this bubble as it floats up and in the second floor window you see that someone has taped up a picture of a rainbow and for a brief moment you smile, and there is hope.
