When the novel coronavirus emerged, I took in the news with some alarm—at a distance. I'd understood, in an academic way, that such an event was possible (inevitable, really). I just didn't expect to see it, in my lifetime.
As the pandemic began to build, I was grateful for the privilege to switch to working from home. But at the same time, I could not see how this would end.
As the virus began to spread in our county, I was grateful for the protective course set by our leaders. I was puzzled that people were hoarding bottled water and toilet paper. I did not expect that, three months later, our markets would still be struggling to stock even facial tissue.
I surveyed my food supply; would I have enough to eat if I needed to quarantine myself for two weeks? And if I became sick, what might I want to eat?
I surveyed my medicine cabinet; I didn't have enough fever-reducing medication to get through one week. I was not alone in that anxiety; the shelves had been stripped bare, everywhere. It was a massive relief when I found one last box at my local pharmacy.
As more became known about symptoms and severity, having a pulse oximeter seemed sensible—the better to notice a decline in lung function before too much damage might be done.
Working from home is now the norm, not the novelty. Our team can work effectively, but so many opportunities that organically develop from serendipitous connections and conversations are lost, now.
I believe the safest course is to minimize close, unprotected or prolonged interactions with other people, and I can do that. Even as restrictions are relaxed, I will watch, and wait.
Five years ago this week I found comfort venturing out on a simple and familiar route: just one hill to climb.
The week opened with a confirmed 2617 cases of COVID-19 in our county, and closed with 2776 (a 6.1% increase).
The end is not in sight. One hill at a time.
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