It was March.
It was Covid. All covid, all day, every day. Endlessly.
No one knew what was happening, what was going to happen, what had already happened which would then influence what was yet to come. In the span of just one or two days our city went from normal life to completely shut down. The streets were eerily empty. The highway had no traffic. Stores were dark and empty. In just one week us hospital workers were in full PPE gear and learning how to live a life we didn't have instructions for.
One day we didn't have enough PPE, then the next day we did, then we didn't again. One day we had to wear masks, and then the next day we had to wear face shields, and then the next day back to masks. Later on we had to wear both. Nurses and doctors got sick. People died. A lot of people died. Everyday. Alone. We lived in a place of grief and fear and learned to live that way while grasping hope and exhaustion in each hand, sharing the best we had inside ourselves with the people working side by side with us and trying to hold onto enough 'self' to carry home to our families.
We learned to live in isolation. We gave up hugging our children and each other. We learned to wear clothes with bleach stains and shoes that sat in our trunks whenever we weren't at work. We bathed in sanitizer. And we did it day after day.
Then it was July.
It was summer, and blue sky, and warm air, and it was... different.
It wasn't ALL covid, ALL day, Everyday. It was... different.
Our cities and towns were only partially locked down. We could shop, eat out, go to the gym. At the hospital, we only needed PPE for some patients. We kept the covid positive patients just on one floor, not every floor. We rode on the shuttle bus again. We were used to wearing masks all the time and had learned to be safe as a matter of routine. We hugged our children and walked our pets, and hugged each other too. The memory of sitting in a parking lot praying and crying before every shift seemed surreal, like it had been just a nightmare, or that it had happened years ago and not just months.
We learned to teach our kids via zoom and google meet with their teachers. We learned to embrace family and friends via marco polo and facetime and other platforms that kept us safe, but in touch. We worked more normal hours. We felt... different. We laughed. We lived.
Now it's the end of November.
Time flew by so quickly. Quicker than we ever thought it could. In the span of one week we have been thrust heart and soul back into the grasp of Covid.
All Covid, All day, Everyday. Endlessly.
We ran out of blue plastic isolation gowns this morning. We ran out of alcohol swabs too. We had a school teacher with covid on our floor and her school has been shut down. My own child is due to start back at school in a couple of days and I got an email last night that one of the staff had just tested positive. The sense of dread is so heavy.
The weight of worry and fear is something we hospital workers carry in our pockets, in our backpacks and purses, slipped into the folds of our clothing, we carry it everywhere we go, once again. We didn't hug each other at work today. I won't hug my child tonight until after I've showered, and then disinfected the pathway from the front door to the bathroom. Even then, I may wear a mask. They say this is "the new normal" but let me tell you, THIS? This is NOT normal. This is trauma.
May God bless you and make His face shine upon you, and onto all of us.
