Thursday, 10:02am, another day during a pandemic

There’s no way to know how to talk about the current time we’re living in. It’s both terrifying and boring. Mindnumbing and gripping. Everyday the number of people dying increases over the previous day. When will it reverse? When will it be safe? When will we know the danger has passed? How will I remember this time?

I guess the only way is to document it as best and honestly as I can.

I don’t know if I’m capable of setting aside my fears at any moment during this pandemic. Nearly every minute of the day, whether it’s light or dark, sunny or cloudy, I’m burdened by the thought of it’s presence. It’s lingering danger. It’s threat. I can’t sleep. I can’t relax. I can’t be consumed or paralyzed. And yet I’m left speechless and terrified. Every day. Full of fear.

Fear that one of us in this house will get sick. And then worsen, and be forced to go to the hospital, where they will be diagnosed with Covid-19, admitted to intensive care, put in quarantine, and forever be isolated, never to hold or hug or breathe in them again, as they die alone and scared and in pain.

I cannot bear the possibility of that loss. No matter the slight chances of infection, there are still chances, still possibilities for that nightmare to be real – as it is for many thousands and thousands of people right now.

So I’m plagued that every ache, every moment of exhaustion, every cough, that I feel is the start of the end. And I cannot escape that looming path. I worry about what we touch, and who touched it before we touched it, and what they touched and if they were infected, and chanting inside to not touch my face, and to wash my hands again, better and longer and with more vigor, and to wipe everything down to kill this fucking virus that is taunting the world.

I attempt to ignore it. To distract myself with work and projects and mindless entertainment. But the fear is like a chime, steady and loud, persistently torturing my peace. “I’m here. I’m here. I’m here”

I sleep terribly, besotted with dreams of this hidden invader. Of fevers and pain and isolation and drowning and dying alone – missing the chance to know who my kids become and accomplish.

What will the world learns from this? How will we move on? What will we recover and ignore and change and grow into? Who will we lose and who will we blame? How will we stop this?

So now as I write, lying in bed on a Thursday morning, yet again awoken at 2am in panic, I try to breath in as deeply as I can. Holding it in. Savoring the moment.

Right now, we are fine. That is all I can know. This moment is all I can experience. We are alive and ok.

So hold it, and stand up, and move on.