#COVID19

The August of Our Covid Discontent

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Over the past few weeks, my home has evolved into an unwelcome public health experiment that addressed two hot Covid questions: who is immune and who rebounds after Paxlovid? After attending a wedding in Vermont, my husband Tim and I returned home with happy memories and a stealthily simmering case of Covid 19. We had done good work avoiding infection for the duration of the pandemic and we knew we were taking a chance attending a large event. We also knew there were no guarantees the other attendees were taking precautions or wouldn’t be actively harboring the virus. It was a gamble. We lost. 

When the first partygoer surfaced with a positive test result, Tim and I began our emotional journey through the five stages of Covid grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. We were sure we would be fine. We were angry that someone go to a large-scale event if they were sick or were a close contact who should be in isolation. We felt fine, that is until Tim’s first violent coughing fit during his sleep three nights later. The shrug when Tim’s test came up positive the next day demonstrated his tacit acceptance. The whole thing was depressing.

Although I felt fine, I tested myself, as a matter of course. Even though our house was a hotbed of germs, I was negative. Still, I believed it was a matter of time before I joined the ranks of the afflicted. Or maybe not. As Tim ran the course of symptoms–runny nose, cough, fever–I remained asymptomatic. Text messages exchanged between family members proved we were not alone in our situation. Some of us were sick, others were not. Some took Paxlovid, others chose to tough out the illness. Others dodged the virus altogether. Our extended family became a microcosm of society and a demonstration of the unpredictability of the Covid-19 virus and its variants. 

Tim started Paxlovid on ‘Day Two’ and saw improvement quickly. Despite my lack of symptoms, I isolated myself along with Tim since I was a close contact. As time passed, I continued to test negative and after five days, feeling as restless as I did in mid-2020, I ventured out to the grocery store wearing a mask. We needed food and I needed a change of scenery. I mean, I love my husband but the novelty of the early days of the pandemic, when he first began working from home, had worn off. I needed to get out in the world. 

Eight days into his illness, he finally tested negative but he sat out being social for a few more days, for safety’s sake. I continued to test negative and I made plans to dine out with a friend. On ‘Day Eleven,’ we embarked on an evening in Boston’s North End. Our friend conveyed some trepidation about our Covid status but we went. The next day, Tim’s nose started running. He tested. He was positive. I was negative. We rapidly cycled through the stages of Covid grief as the infection cycle began again. 

It is now Friday of the third week of Covid in our house. Tim’s symptoms continue to plague him and me. We pcr-tested at the drive-thru site in Revere last evening, and the results popped up in the middle of the night. I was awake to receive them since Tim’s fitful sleep prevented me from a good night’s rest. As expected, he was positive. I was negative. Fully alert from agitation, I moved to the sofa in the den and turned on the tv. I dozed until he left the bed at 6:30 am. Crawling back under the sheets, I nestled my pillow and slept until 9:30. I woke up exhausted, not just from lack of sleep. 

In the realm of coulda, woulda, shoulda, we have questioned ourselves, knowing what we know now, would we have gone to the wedding? We’ve missed concerts, our grandchildren’s plays, and dinner parties with friends, losses that cause us to be a little raw when we consider the topic. Maybe we will revisit the question once Tim gets a negative test. We played a game of viral Russian Roulette and one of us lost. We wondered why I never got sick. Wacky DNA? Mediterranean genes? An iron-clad immune system inherited from my father? As the experiment wore on, it didn’t really matter. I was a close contact with a conscience. I watched the summer slide by as I cowered in my basement until the all clear. When people asked me if I was ‘negative,’ I responded, “In more ways than one!” I sounded snarky. I didn’t care.

Tim will test again tomorrow and we’ll hope for the best. In the meantime, I’ll depend on my super DNA to save me and others from infection as I venture out into the world tonight without the patient. It’s ‘Negative test-Day Eighteen’ for me so I will assume I’m good to go. My Covid conscience tells me to grab a mask, just in case.

How Can I Not Feel Hopeless When All the News is Bad?

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How to Deliver Bad News That Builds Trust & Confidence -

(This piece was written in early May after a spate of bad news.)

This morning, after reading another Facebook post about the latest conspiracy theory, I decided that I had enough. Tucked between uplifting memes and videos of ‘birthday drive-bys,’ a collection of political rhetoric, medical advice, and vitriol have overtaken my feed. The news, fake or otherwise, is never good anymore and it flows rapidly and endlessly. My head spins with uncertainty and fear. My nightly dreams are plagued by images seen during the day, by ones that my imagination conjures up, and by a myriad of terrifying possibilities. My brain works overtime trying to make sense of it all. As a former school counselor, I recognize the signs of anxiety. I also acknowledge the need for self-care and an emotional timeout from the madness of the pandemic and the world as a whole.

Making a conscious decision to unplug isn’t easy. I am a junkie for information, even if it does give me agita and nightmares. Nonetheless, this morning, I placed my phone on the table with a pledge to give it, and myself, a rest. Instantaneously, the familiar ding of a text alert forced me to check the message. As I read the words, the same dread from which I craved escape assaulted my already frayed nerves. A friend shared the news that, last night, her dad had passed of the virus and, like most victims, he died alone. I consoled her as much as I could via a text message since I didn’t want to intrude with a phone call. Actually, I couldn’t handle the role of comforter without my own voice faltering. As I put my phone down, I sat back and absorbed the news. It was the second recent death too close to home. Another friend had lost her grandmother, a nursing home resident, to the virus yesterday. The loss, still fresh in my mind, weighed heavily on my spirit. No longer were these just stories on social media or on the governor’s daily briefings; now, the statistics had names and faces. The vicarious sadness which sprung from hearing strangers’ stories had morphed into raw, palpable despair.

Shockingly, my morning’s dose of grief had only begun. Less than an hour later, my phone rang. When I answered, I heard the shaky voice of one of my dearest friends on the line. Instinctively, I anticipated the worst. As she shared the sad news that her mom had also died from the virus last night, I listened in shock and disbelief.  As she recounted the story of her last contact with her mother, a one-sided conversation conducted via cellphone and facilitated by a compassionate nurse, she believes that she heard her mother say “I love you,” even though the words from her mother’s lips were an unintelligible mumble. My friend, a nurse herself, has lived the challenge and heartbreak of the virus in her daily work at a large Boston hospital, but this time was different. The loss of her mother has reframed her own reality as a caregiver. As a nurse in the time of COVID-19, she appreciates the anguish of the caregivers who comforted her mother in her last moments. Sadly, she also joins the ranks of those who have endured this kind of loss, experiencing the haunting regret that her mom died ‘alone.’ Her sentiments mirror those of thousands of families who have depended on others to help their loved ones pass peacefully, their hands held lovingly by proxy as they crossed over. 

For me, the deaths pile on top of each other like stones in a cairn, the weight of each immobilizing my ability to process all of the sadness. And even though I try to unplug from the noise of the world, the reality seems to find me. It invades the insulated world that I have tried to create, the place to which I retreat to protect myself from the fear, sadness, and hopelessness outside my front door and as close as my iPhone. In the end, I’m not sure that I will be able to hide.

I know one thing for certain: the news is never good anymore.

Put the Phone Down | The Appreciation Factor

Etiquette 101 and Coronavirus: A Primer

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I remember the old days when I worried that someone was standing too close to me in an elevator or at the checkout stand. Back then, it had nothing to do with contagion. Instead, I just obsessed with the need for common courtesy. A dirty look or a step forward usually cured the complaint unless the person was a real numb-nut and took a step forward, too. It was a simpler time and the rules were squishy. Ah, those were the days.

In a short ten days, life has become one long, painful Seinfeld episode where the world is teeming with close talkers and germophobes who wander amongst us. On the other hand, we need to be hyper-aware of the Poppy’s who are “a little sloppy,” failing to sing all of Bohemian Rhapsody twice in order to ensure that their hands harbor not a shard of the sloughed-off virus. My own family, living next door, avoids me, claiming that they do not want to infect us old people, just in case. I know better. They are afraid we are carriers as well. In our family, Coronavirus has pit mother against daughter, with an accidental passing touch of hands causing a stampede to the kitchen sink for a good scrubbing. 

Nothing is simple. In the day of COVID-19, we search our consciences to decide whether or not leaving the house is an essential act. Walking out the front door requires papal absolution, even if we pledge to not look into another person’s eyes and promise to cross the street whenever a stranger comes into sight. But sometimes, a girl just needs to get outside. 

This morning, I took a walk in the woods near our house but before embarking on my trek, I dipsticked the potential for effective social distancing. From my living room window, high above the access road in the forest, without the impediment of leaves on the trees, I saw that the path was clear. Although it was only twenty-nine degrees, I needed air, and it was only 9:15 a.m. I could see that it was going to be a long day of self-imposed exile. Slipping my camera strap over my neck, I set off. 

A beautiful walk in nature, undisturbed by humans wielding the Coronavirus, was just what I needed. Meandering up the hill, I searched the bare branches for owls and hawks. I photographed the streaming sunlight through the trees, ducks cutting the surface of a peaceful ebb-free pond, and my white whale, the great blue heron. Peaceful and chilly, I reveled in the calm.

Deeper into the woods, a dog approached. My first thought: if this dog bites me, I can’t go to the Emergency Room or I will certainly get infected. I greeted the dog calmly and realized in seconds that he was a good boy, friendly and calm. I searched the road ahead for the owner. As I spied the man who was oblivious to my presence since he was looking at his phone and smoking a cigarette, I chose to make a U-turn. The path was narrow and my now inbred need to keep my distance kicked in. As lovely as the dog was, I abandoned him to his owner’s questionable attention.

As I turned around, a group of three, well-bundled up, loud, chatty people worked their way up the hill. I assessed my options. About fifteen feet ahead, I saw the small road that would take me out of harm’s way. I hastened my step and took the right turn that would bring me to safety. It wasn’t long before I heard footsteps behind me. One of the group had broken off and approached me, far to close for comfort. I shot the glance I use at the supermarket when my personal space is invaded. She retreated. In a time of powerlessness, I was momentarily powerful.

After my close encounter, I thought about the need for an etiquette book for appropriate behavior in a crisis such as this one.  I would call my manual, Coroniquette: Distance Living for the Pandemic. With all of the confusion around the meaning of  “social distancing,” people need rules, and maybe even laws, to define limits. Whether they read my handbook or not is another thing.  It’s a time when nothing is simple and depending on your fellow humans is touch and go.

In the meantime, my best advice is to stay safe and hold your loved ones six feet away. The life you save might be theirs. 

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