Pandemic Stream of Consciousness

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(Content warning: covid, death rates, hospitalization, generally bleak)

(Context: This is a stream of consciousness I wrote in the spring of 2020. My grandmother barely survived covid, and now has lupus as a result.)

I haven’t left our apartment in days. We have to wait around a week to get our groceries through pick up. I scroll through my phone and see the curve reimagined as cute cats. My grandmother is in the hospital, do not resuscitate order signed. I can’t even comprehend the death rate each day. Our street has been ghostly quiet. I just want to do my part to flatten the curve, keep my friends, family, community safe. People are marching on their capitols, demanding that their hair dressers be put at risk for the sake of their vanity. My red streak has faded to a sickly pink. I don’t mind. This ugly fade is an act of love.

All of the events I was looking forward to have been cancelled. I won’t see my students and coworkers again until next school year. I can’t pretend a part of me isn’t disappointed, but it is eclipsed by my relief. I’m running on black tea and lavender oil, trying to caffeinate and calm my mind into some sense of normalcy. The skin on the back of my hands is dry and itchy from frequent washing. I’ve started applying lotion so my skin doesn’t crack and make me more vulnerable to viruses. If I get sick I become a risk to others. I refuse to overlook any measure that is within my power.

The protests have grown. Not a mask in sight. Men with guns line the pockets. Their faces become beat red as they scream threats into a void where consequences are kept safe for anyone who looks different. Everyone sees the video of the woman screaming at the doctor. I’ve thrown myself into making masks. I pulled out all of the cotton I have. I spend days cutting it, running my hands over the squares my mother collected when I was young. I whisper to every fiber as iron them, setting their future. May they help keep the wearers safe. May they help keep the people around the wearers safe. Medical professionals need these.

In the richest country, they have to resort to bandanas and garbage bags. What is the purpose of such wealth? Your hoard rests atop a mountain of dead bodies. I won’t charge for the masks. I have the materials. I have the time. I just want everyone to get through this. So many already haven’t.

A mutual friend on facebook thinks we should just let the elderly and immunocompromised die. Telling him his lack of empathy is disgusting has no effect. He even seems proud of it. My friend blocks him, but his feelings seem to be shared by the protestors. Middle aged white people demand that others be forced back to work, just to serve them. Preppers throw tantrums over the need to stay home, despite having the means to do so. It’s obvious they are disappointed, but not like the rest of us. They long for an apocalypse that can only result in violence. They seem incapable of grasping that empathy and compassion are how we will get through this. They don’t spare a thought for others as they wail for what they want.

I’ve sewn fabric from my childhood. I’ve begun to use the fabric I had plans for. It was going to be a beautiful quilt, to keep me warm. Instead it will keep others safe. Lives are indispensable, but there will always be more pretty fabric. The whirring, clacking of my sewing machine has sunk into my nails, replacing the polish I haven’t taken the time to reapply. My tea is cold, but the occasional sip still keeps my energy up. I don’t want to be doing this. I want to keep my time and fabric to myself, but there are more lives than mine at stake. This is what I have to offer, so I will put all of my goodwill and love into each mask. It’s a small sacrifice.

I think of the men in body armor with their assault rifles and then I look at myself with a wristband full of yellow pins, wearing a cutesy teddy bear dress; I would not survive their apocalypse, but at least I am not throwing a tantrum over a pandemic. Eventually, my stitching gets uneven. I have to stop or the masks will be useless. It’s three A.M. I crawl into bed next to my patient, high-risk, trans spouse. Still asleep, they rest their forehead against mine. I take their hand and think of all the people less fortunate than us. I worry for friends, family, strangers. I think of the screaming men with guns one more time before I drift off, and one thought becomes clear: I am proud to be the kind of person that would not survive their apocalypse.

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