What it’s like to self-isolate because of coronavirus
This is the first week of spring and the beginning of lockdown in my city of Chicago.
I wake up, turn on the news and begin to sob. I hold my face in my hands, trying to muffle the sounds, so my husband doesn’t hear. My grief, like the novel coronavirus, is unleashed and uncontrolled.
Illinois has issued a stay-at-home order while my daughters and their families are miles away — one in Arizona and one in Hawaii. We talk on the phone daily, but it’s not the same. Even if I still lived in Phoenix, we would be isolated – those are the new rules.
I drink my lemon, ginger and turmeric juice as if it’s magic — as if it has the power to cure any disease that might be lingering inside my body ready to strike at any time.
This is worse than 9/11, although some of the same thoughts cross my mind. I want to be near family, close to my daughter, grandchildren and friends. I don’t want them to feel scared or alone. Or is it that I feel lonely?
“Schools are canceled,” my youngest daughter tells me on the phone. I offer to help, but she forbids me to travel the 1,755 miles from Chicago to Phoenix. She wants me to wait until it’s safe. I don’t want to listen, so I change the subject.
I peer out from the eighth floor of my condo. I feel more like a prisoner every day. I’m trying to stay positive by listing interventions to divert my attention, like sitting in my overstuffed chair reading “Euphoria” by Lilly King, practicing yoga at home or sorting family photos. Maybe I should take a brisk walk along the lake. None of the activities excite me.
The streets are deserted, except for a few people walking, carefully distancing themselves from one another. Some wear cloth masks, others have scarves tied around their heads, leaving only eyes and foreheads naked. Four men walk around exposing their full face, looking courageous and foolish at the same time.
I call my friends in Phoenix. A girlfriend tells me she’s flying to Sarasota, Fla., for spring break with two physician friends and their three children. I give her advice to protect herself and others by not traveling. Then I suggest she talk with her physician friends and discuss the safety issues. By the end of our conversation, she tells me, “Thanks, I’m not going anywhere.”
I stock up on groceries from Costco. The lines are short, but still no toilet paper or hand sanitizer. Three customers and one employee wear a mask. When I get home, my Phoenix friends and I compare store shortages and laugh about becoming hoarders.
My oldest daughter, a physician, has been exposed to the coronavirus. She told me about a patient in her 60s who came to her office a month ago exhibiting flu-like symptoms. She sent her to the ER for confirmation, but they didn’t have any test kits at that time. The patient was sent home, where she recovered within two weeks.
Then I remembered when my daughter told me she felt ill with a low-grade fever and chronic cough. That was three weeks ago. I listen and study her voice now on the phone. She sounds hoarse and has frequent coughing jags.
She tells me she may have been exposed and has been waiting more than a week for her test results.
I tell her my plan to visit and she speaks to me like our roles are reversed. “Mom, I’m on the front lines. If I didn’t already have the virus, I’ll probably come down with it sooner or later. I don’t want to pass it on to you.” She suggests a visit in June or July.
Science has taught me that everything is more complicated than we first assume, and that being able to derive happiness from discovery is a recipe for a beautiful life.
We are each given exactly one chance to be. Each of us is both impossible and inevitable.
I’ve come to terms with this pandemic and understand the need for isolation. I made the right decision.