COVIDmuse

A rare toilet paper sighting, early on a Sunday morning, during the COVID-19 outbreak.
​
In this corona-virus shutdown, I find myself in a place of unrestful comfort. No one at our house is visibly sick. We’ve got soap, toilet paper, WiFi, and a well-stocked fridge. Gratitude is my outer garment, but anxiety lies just beneath. Unlike a lot of my neighbors, I have survived a life-threatening disease. I’ve spent a few days in a coma and on a ventilator. My family was terrified, and I couldn’t see my kids for more than a week. I remember the sense of invincibility that I had before I got sick, the effervescent gratitude of survival, and how much my life has changed since that time. And I wonder if those that do contract COVID-19, and survive, will struggle with aftermath symptoms like I did, and if so, which ones. Hearing loss? Motor control? Memory? Or will it even be hard to breathe?

It’s been interesting to see other people develop the OCD/germophobe tendencies I’ve lived with for years. A video meme featured a young guy washing his hands repeatedly after accidental touches to the faucet handle and his face. I get this. I tend to open doors with my knuckles or a sleeve, even when there’s not a pandemic. Usually, I’m able to turn off the voices in my head, especially when I’m teaching music, though I cringe if a child returns from the restroom and announces, “I forgot to wash my hands!” I turn off the voices that screech “That’s dirty!” because I love people and don’t want to alienate them. And now that the Great State of Ohio has moved all schools to digital instruction, I only have to worry about the cleanliness of my own home. 

So here I am, indirectly benefiting from this crisis by being home from work, while also haunted by those for whom staying home is not a privilege. An ER nurse at one of our local hospitals has contracted COVID-19. I’m terrified to hear about personnel without gowns and masks. I pray for them. I pray for their families. And I pray for my students, for whom school is a bright spot they’re missing out on. 

It’s a sober time. 

A couple of friends decided to rent a cabin to get away from the stress. I declined to join them (though that's not a slam on them, 'cause I love them to pieces). I have more peace at home right now. I have more time with my immediate family. Work on my writing has replaced the trip to see my mother in Florida, who happens to be one of the immune-compromised folks we are all working so hard to protect. A live-streamed service replaces our weekly time volunteering at church. 

And as I write this, I’m watching the news conference of Governor Mike DeWine and Dr. Amy Acton, two figures who have put politics aside to slow the pandemic. Our state’s on a stay-at-home order until April 6. 

I am eager for life to return to normal, but not so eager as to risk the spread. And I’m deeply grateful for those on the front lines: the healthcare workers, the police, the truck drivers, those making and selling our food. And yet, there’s a part of me wishing I could do more. 

I leave you with one anecdote on how this epidemic affects our youngest ones. On Friday, I took some supplies to the food-and-lesson pickup at the school where I teach. And I saw one of my first graders. His face lit up as he saw me through an open doorway, and as he ran toward me, I said “Long-distance hug!”

He must not have understood, because he buried his face in my tummy and wrapped his arms around me. And I hugged him back. And as I did, I thought about what Jesus said about following the spirit of the law instead of the letter. 

Exercise caution. Follow the guidelines. But hold people as close as you can.