This feeling that the pandemic is crushing something within me is overwhelming

I’m not one to complain. A lot. I do, of course, like all of us, but I’ve born the cross of the pandemic like the most patient of gods on their way to Calvary. I asked myself: why complain? It won’t change the course of things? I certainly won’t feel any better about it. Or so I thought. I’ve tried to keep things together, I’ve worked from home while watching others continue to go to the office (even though they didn’t “have to”), I endured continuous Facebook posts by acquaintances flaunting in the face of social distancing with pics of hugs and parties with friends, smiles all around. I watched daily press conferences, studied medical studies on variants, memorized incidence curves and comparisons between nations.

I still got the effing virus

To add insult to injury, our son came home with the virus in early December and we all got sick in the span of three days. When it happened, I went into automaton-mode, looking after child and husband, their complaints about my tasteless cooking, headaches, and fevers, while secretly freaking out about my physician’s warnings about day seven. Alas, we all got lucky and day seven came and went without any shortness of breath, blue lips, or ambulances. We recovered and have the antibodies to prove it.

Yet still, we wear the face masks on public transport and watch on while others don’t, we share the responsibility of school drop-offs to avoid extra travel, we order groceries online at extra cost to avoid crowding stores, buy stuff online to avoid unnecessary travel or visiting stores. All the while I see those Facebook posts, the pictures from cafés and bars, umbrella drinks, and smiling friends sitting way too close to each other for comfort.

Suddenly you find yourself facing another human being

Yesterday I combined a trip to pick up the kids from school with a necessary store visit. Online results and phone calls had not yielded the necessary results and a physical visit was necessary. Walking through a mostly empty furniture store (not unusual for 3 pm on a weekday even in pre-pandemic days) my eyes were like a radar, looking out for potential risk factors, other store visitors, potential health hazards. My visit was unfruitful, but utterly exhausting because as I was leaving the store I came across a couple of hinders in the shape of homo sapiens sapiens, standing stupidly between couches and sofas. Trying to squeeze by, turning my head and torso away from them, as to avoid breathing in/out in. their direction as the space between us was less than the prescribed two meters, I felt the adrenalin rush, the fear (stupidly and needlessly) of this sudden brush with my potential demise and my entire being suddenly seemed to scream: “Just get me fucking home. NOW!”

I wear it because I am responsible, not because it’s enjoyable

I’m so done with this pandemic

Weäre coming up on the first anniversary of our “shelter at home” orders: March 17. Not a date one easily forgets. And I am so done with Covid-19, corona, the virus, this pandemic, these “particular times” or whatever other stupid euphemism you wish to use to describe the existence we’ve all endured these past twelve months. I want to host a dinner party for good friends, talk about highs and lows over a good bottle of Amarone, I want to hug my best friends again, kiss my husband without fear of death, hug my kid more often, more naturally, the way we used to before he turned into a walking death trap for his parents. I want to travel again, sit in crowded airline lounges drinking their cheap wine while waiting for our flight out into a world of adventure. I want to walk on crowded streets of cobble-stone in ancient cities around the world, sit in bars and sip champagne and watch passers-by. I want my fucking life back.

Not wanting to sound ungrateful, of course. We’re alive and healthy, we survived the bug without any lasting symptoms. We’ve not (yet) lost any close friends or loved ones to it, and we have enough space to. call home that I can sit in three or four different places at home for my meetings without disturbing Alex in his. Compared to those who must brave the world every day, who risk infection, every day, we are lucky indeed. Lucky to be able to afford online grocery shopping, lucky to be able to work from home. Lucky. Unlike the millions who’ve perished. Yet still, mentally, this has been a rough year. I have been unable to write, unable to create. And I know that millions and millions are hurting, worse than I am. Much worse.

So here’s to you who doesn’t give a shit

Fuck you!

We’re so close to the end of the pandemic. Vaccines are coming, death rates decreasing. All we need is a few more months to hold out, as rough as it is. I’m a grown-up. I’ll keep wearing my face mask even though it makes me sneeze and my glasses fog so I can’t see shit. I will stay away and social and physical distance until the government says “it’s over!”, I’ll follow rules and regulations until they’re lifted, and I’ll be thankful and take my vaccine when it’s my turn. But to you who doesn’t care, doesn’t believe, or can’t be bothered, please enjoy my beautiful middle finger right there in your face. By now I will have unfollowed you on my Facebook and I will not reach out to you after this pandemic. Obviously, we’re not meant to be friends, because I expected more from you than you’re capable of delivering. I wish you well in the future as your subconscious grapples with the deaths and the suffering caused by your egotistical behavior. I doubt you’ll ever realize the cost you owe society.

Probably for the best.

Love, Hans