Coronavirus Journal Entry #1
Photo taken by author
I remember walking briskly down Houston last Saturday, March 7th, package in hand and headphones lodged in my ears as I made my way to the post office. Over my music, I heard a scream. A gaggle of girls in front of me dispersed as an older hispanic man coughed vigorously. His cough seemed to spring gleefully from his mouth and descend in slow motion onto the street below. Everyone stopped to stare.
I'd heard rumors about the virus stemming from China recently, "the coronavirus," the at once mysterious
and frightening disease supposedly stemming from bats. No one was seriously entertaining this disease in Manhattan just yet, so I chuckled along with the rest of the pedestrians at these girls who were clearly overreacting. I never would have guessed that eleven days later I would be writing this hunkered down in a cabin in New Jersey.
The day after my encounter on the street, my Dad became sick. He woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat. He grew light-headed climbing up the stairs to the kitchen and was armed with a dry cough, concealed behind a mask. Every time we heard the sound reverberate around the house, we wondered if we might be next. The threat of coronavirus became bigger and bigger, and I became more and more worried. We called everywhere we could think of to secure a test for my Dad, but he was not a priority. It was understandable, but frustrating. How were they able to display claims that they knew who was afflicted all over the news when they are unable to test everyone?
We were lucky enough to be equipped with Lysol dispensers, three large bottles of Purell for every entrance, and a well-stocked fridge due to our supermarkets remaining open. When school closed on the 11th, not a week after what I had experienced on the street, my family and I drafted a schedule (see above) to combat the couch potato mentality that was slowly seeping into each of our lives.
But what we were doing to protect ourselves didn't feel like enough. We were still going outside to run errands and my siblings and I were still hugging and playing games together. When my Dad asked me to pick up some potatoes and long-life milk on my next Whole Foods run, I knew that things were about to change. It's the strangest thing not being able to kiss your Mom on the cheek, or hug your youngest brother before he goes to bed, or not go outside and feel the sun on your skin. I didn't realize how much I valued these things until I wasn't allowed to do them. I had to dismantle my automatic responses piece by piece like an engineer until I'd become a robot I didn't recognize as my usual, affectionate self. We were stuck together for longer than ever before, but I'd never felt more isolated.
Society still seemed to be intact when you looked out the window, but as the days wore on, less and less people ventured out of the safety of their homes. I felt like it would only be a couple more days until tumbleweeds roamed the city. We were all privy to the worst-case scenario where riots and robberies could ensue. It was unlikely that the fabric of society would completely unravel, but given the rapid escalation of the virus, it was suddenly very easy to imagine these scenarios.
That small likelihood was enough for my Mom to book a silver Chevy Suburban and reserve a lake house in New Jersey. When the car rolled up, the boot seemed monstrous. But we didn't know how long we would be gone, and suddenly the boot seemed impossibly small to squeeze our entire life into. I have to imagine a new reality, one where the screams of those girls weeks ago was justified, one where I have to express my love for my family members without touch. A reality where New Jersey is now the place I call home.
