Many years ago, not long after the birth of our third child – our daughter, who was our baby born a little over a year after the death of our second child – my husband and I and our two small children were at the beach with some friends. A strong hurricane was approaching, and much of the area was evacuated, though not the area in which we were staying.
I became quite nervous, and followed the Weather Channel with an intensity I had never applied to storm watching before. We finally decided to decamp and head to a safer space until the threat had passed. Our friends chose to stay, teasing me for my oversized panic. Ultimately, the threat came and went, leaving the area relatively unscathed, and we were able to return to continue our vacation.
I have never regretted that decision. Even at the time, I recognized that my nervousness had come from a place so deep down, attention had to be paid, even if it was an extreme reaction. Even if the others around me didn’t understand. My baby had just died. And I had the ferocity of a mother bear knowing that I couldn’t let anything harm the two young creatures in my care. I did what I had to do.
I have been thinking about that experience today, as I returned from a trip to the grocery store, after which I collapsed in tears. A trip to the store on a normal day is not usually a cause for stress. But a trip during the days of Covid-19, when we have morphed from a society used to commerce and working and social lives to a completely shut-down, socially distanced country that is facing worldwide illness, economic calamity and a massive death count in the course of a short few weeks, is a cause for utter anxiety.
I have never been a germaphobe. I don’t think I have ever once bought Purell, even as the mother of three children. I have never worried about germs in open spaces, or while riding public transportation. As a child, we were taught to use our hands to cough and sneeze, which even I recognize is ridiculous, and long ago reverted to the elbow cough. But basically, I move through the world without worrying about what I’m going to catch.
Until now. As the stories about the agony of being a patient with coronavirus show up in our news feeds, and the first thing we see each morning are new graphs with the mounting body count, and we hear the stories of hospitals and health care workers who don’t have the tools or the bed space they need to take care of patients, it’s suddenly become quite real. Worldwide pandemic. I could get sick. I could die. As could the people I love.
Not only do I not want to die, but the thought of my children losing their other parent, four years after their father’s horrific death from brain cancer, is beyond comprehension. That experience may have bared strength I didn't know I had, but this one is flattening me. I am not leaving my house except for groceries and to walk the dog. I have taken out my will and important documents, and told my people where they are. I have created a memo with every piece of vital financial information relevant to my life, just in case. My power of attorney and DNR are in place. I don’t think this is an overreaction when just going to the grocery store puts you in mortal danger.
I am suddenly back at that beach house, with the impending hurricane bearing down on us, and I am scared for our lives. Perhaps back then it was less of a threat, and my reaction was extreme, but the inner sensation is the same. We are in peril. All of us. And I need to get to safe ground before I can breathe again. But this time the safe ground does not exist – anywhere. And we are all caught in a panicked loop of caution and fear and waiting.
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