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I wiped down my silver and blue tray table with the alcohol swabs the flight attendant handed to boarding passengers, this without the usual cheery greeting. I adjusted my disposable mask and looked around the plane from my aisle seat in the 23rd row to make sure everyone else was masked. Of course, they were. It was the rampant rise of COVID-19, a theme in my new book The Time We Have: Essays on Pandemic Living.
No one spoke. It was as quiet as a church on a weekday morning, hours between masses when women in headscarves are kneeling in the front row, swiftly moving rosary beads through their bent fingers.
I was flying home to Chicago after a three-day work trip in Dallas where Mayor Eric Johnson had declared a state of emergency because there were five new cases — not deaths — of COVID-19. For the two-hour flight, there was no cart service of soda, coffee, tea, alcohol or those biscuits that only taste good at 30,000 feet.
It was March 21, 2020.
Like almost everyone else on the planet, COVID-19 made me scared of dying. I was also skeptical. It has been several generations since polio invaded the country, same for measles, though the modern anti-vaxxers shout a different story about what horrors could happen to children if they have vaccines.
Little did I know during this global blooming of COVID-19 that for the next four years, the country would be divided over vaccines and safe practices meant to save us. I had no idea the treacherous territory ahead included worrying you could get COVID-19 from touching the mail or not washing lettuce from the grocery store.
It could kill you. It was that simple. Danger could infiltrate every pore. And there is another surge now, not a pandemic, though cases are rising again, especially for seniors.
The Centers for Disease Control reported that in April 2020, in the U.S., 18 percent of women contracted COVID-19, and 21 percent of men. By April 2024, there had been 704 million COVID-19 cases globally. More than 7 million people died.
The negative impacts of the pandemic — personal, social, professional, economic, physical and mental — were endured more by women than men. So many of us learned that lesson.
“COVID was a really gendered cultural experience,” said Megan Fulcher, professor of cognitive and behavioral science at Washington & Lee University. “COVID really magnified existing inequalities.”
We were the caretakers. As older women, we were naturally more at risk.
Many women like myself experienced stressors such as “the trend of having adult children come back home or grandmothers caring for children,“ Fulcher notes.
Two of my three adult sons moved back into my house in late 2020 to stop spending high rents in their buildings where all the amenities were closed. While they worked remotely full-time from makeshift offices in their bedrooms, it was a major adjustment for me, someone who had been happily living and working alone, in charge of the surrounding noise levels. They also went out with friends. I was scared of what they could bring into the house — of what it could do to me.
I attended Zoom tributes to those who tragically passed due to COVID-19 or other causes. The tradition of gathering in person in community spaces to mourn or process grief in a celebration of life was abolished.
According to Lisa Dinella, professor of psychology and Director of Gender and Intersectionality Studies at Monmouth University, women “were over-represented in moderate to higher rates of depression and anxiety.”
In my mid-60s, I understand this. All of us seniors watched images of hazmat-suited doctors and nurses walking down hospital hallways or tending to a patient on oxygen. Immunocompromised and over 60, could we be next?
The relentless COVID-19 updates reminded me of watching the evening news in the 1960s and early 1970s, filled with Vietnam War battle scenes featuring camouflage-clad American soldiers fighting Viet Cong Communist enemies.
In August of 2022, I contracted COVID-19. It was a very mild case with cold-like symptoms and fatigue. It lasted a week and I quarantined at home.
Yes, dealing with death is no stranger to me. In 2006, I was diagnosed with Stage 1 breast cancer, had successful treatments and was declared cancer-free. Seventeen years later, in June 2023, my doctors found a new type of aggressive, invasive cancer.
I have buried both my parents, my older brother, all sets of grandparents and far too many friends. I have pushed through deadly illness and survived.
COVID-19 now may not be at the level of a global public health emergency, yet the pandemic’s grip has left an indelible scar on my psyche and the world. As citizens of these turbulent times, none of us can avoid thinking about death — and the urgency of living well as long as we can.
“People’s relationship with death is evolving,” said Dr. Carla Kuon, author of the 2023 book, The Long COVID Solution: A Holistic, Integrative Approach To Post-Viral Recovery and director of the Long COVID Optimal-IH Clinic for Integrative Health at the University of California-San Francisco. “There is a saying: ‘A crisis is a terrible thing to waste’,” she added. “COVID is positively changing culture.”
My choice is to live more cleanly — and I do not mean more by applying more hand sanitizer and wearing plastic gloves. What I mean is I want to live a life without conflict or regret and have deliberately paused friendships and ended relationships that were not fulfilling or nurturing. I am also back to swimming four to five times a week, up to 50 laps. And, I eliminated alcohol as my oncologist said that was the best choice.
Because my bout with COVID-19 and my recent cancer treatments had me quarantined, I make sure when I go out it is to learn something new that will enhance me. This can be a movie, a performance, a museum visit or a walk with a close friend.
Yes, I am changed. And I am grateful for every breath.
Did any of you get COVID-19? Did any of you manage to NEVER get it? Let us know in the comments below.
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