Life under quarantine
Many families struggle at home with few resources
At times like these, we have to cling to the simple pleasures, like a nice slice of toast slathered with butter. In the weeks since my father was diagnosed with COVID-19, I have tended to focus a great deal on such things. On Sunday morning, my mouth actually began to water as I watched the pat of Kerrygold unsalted melt into the hot bread.
Then I had to remind myself to swallow, because excess moisture makes masks work less well.
On April 23, my father came home from the rehab facility, where he caught — and survived — COVID-19. We have been incredibly fortunate; his case was never more than mild and currently includes only a minor cough, and that may be triggered by allergies. The facility said that it couldn’t retest him and that, anyway, retesting wasn’t needed — he fit the American government’s guidelines for release.
Thanks to my writing about COVID-19, I knew that the Centres for Disease Control and Prevention guidelines in fact prefer retesting when possible and waiting for two negative results, 24 hours apart, before considering the patient safe. Just to be on the safe side, we took my father to get tested. I considered this a formality until the results came back positive.
The only rooms with doors are upstairs. My father’s bedroom, and the accessibility adaptations for his bad knees and back, are downstairs, where the house is open- concept in the extreme and designed to maximize airflow in lieu of air conditioning. So instead of having a sick room, we have a sick house and two well rooms, where my sister and I isolate ourselves — from him, and each other — unless we’re needed downstairs.
My life is now divided into upstairs activities and downstairs activities. Eating toast is an upstairs activity. Making toast is, however, a downstairs activity. In between those activities, I have to put on or take off my hastily improvised personal protective equipment: a long dress that is worn only outside my room; a bandana over my hair; an exercise mask and a surgical mask tied over that.
When I come upstairs with my breakfast, all of this has to be removed, piece by piece, in proper order to minimize cross- contamination. After that, my hands, face and glasses must be scrubbed. About every other trip, I also shower to wash my hair.
I leave the toast in my room, which, with all the windows open to the Massachusetts spring, is a balmy 4 C. By the time I eat the toast, it is approximately the same temperature.
No one prepared us for any of this. The nursing home said my father was ready to come home. No one asked how we were preparing to help him do that, and I doubt it occurred to anyone to wonder. We have four surgical masks, which we sterilize in the oven between uses. We were given them only because, after the test results came back positive, I called the rehab facility and spoke to them at length about their discharge procedure — at considerably higher volume than normal.
No one asked how we would get groceries, now that my sister and I are presumptively exposed and thus required to quarantine. No one tried to find out about the house layout or whether it was feasible for us to quarantine 800 kilometres from our homes for two weeks after my father’s case resolves. ( Thankfully, it is, but what if we’d had kids at home? What if we were an 80- year- old spouse with diabetes instead of two daughters in their 40s?) No one, including us, remembered that things one might ordinarily do to get ready for such a homecoming, like hiring movers to bring Dad’s bed upstairs, are temporarily impossible.
Nonetheless, we’re extraordinarily fortunate: my dad is not very sick and needs relatively little help. He is home, where he belongs, and not on a ventilator or locked in a room in a nursing home, as so many other patients are — even if he has to wear a mask whenever we’re around.
We have money to order what we need ( though it may take a week or so to get here). Most important, my sister and I know how to research COVID-19, push back against airy assurances and mobilize resources such as the local eldercare office, which has a volunteer grocery delivery system. I mentioned the situation on Twitter and was flooded with offers of help from readers.
We have it easy compared with so many people dealing with this disease. But knowing how hard it has been to manage this, even with all my advantages, I keep thinking about the people who are helping sicker relatives with fewer resources.
What I keep thinking is, “We have to do this better.” My family may be one of the first to face these issues, but we will not be anything close to the last.
WHAT I KEEP THINKING IS, ‘WE HAVE TO DO THIS BETTER.’