Almost a year ago, I wrote an article titled On Covid.
The first paragraph went like this:
As of today, over 10 million people in the US have had the disease, and almost 250k people have died from it. Even if you love conspiracies and are like, “that’s not true, only 50,000 people have died from it!” or whatever number you’re throwing around—it doesn’t change the logic. Because those lives were still important. They were still somebody’s child, somebody’s parent, somebody’s grandparent. And there are a lot of them.
This year, I’d like to write the same post, but from the perspective of a year removed, and from the perspective of someone who is done with conspiracies. No longer will I entertain them. Too many people are dead.
As of today, nearly 50 million people in the US have had COVID-19 and 757 thousand people have died from it. Three times where we were at last year. 5 million people worldwide have died. 5 million! And 250 million people worldwide have gotten sick. These numbers, to me, are nearly unfathomable. Staggering. 32k people in the state of Pennsylvania alone (where I live now) have died. And researchers are suggesting that half of the people who get covid will deal with long-covid symptoms to some degree.
Half. Which means that if you get covid, you have a 50/50 chance of long covid.
This year, we also have vaccinations to measure. 193 million people in the US have been fully vaccinated. Vaccines for children were just approved by the FDA. But we’re still only hovering around 58% vaccinated in the country—and only 53% in my county, compared to the 61% state average. Half.
It isn’t enough. At this rate, there will be no herd immunity. Only wave after wave of variants. We’ll need new vaccines to combat the new variants. All those pandemic apocalypse movies are coming true. It’s just slower than we writers like to imagine it. Like a slow-motion tsunami, so huge you can’t hope outrun it. A nightmare from which there is no escape.
And the people most disenfranchised by society—disabled people, people of color, people without homes, people who are poor—they’re the most at risk. They are taking the brunt of this catastrophe.
And I’m tired. It’s a different kind of tiredness than I’ve experienced in my 33 years. I’m tired of feeling like other people don’t care. Of going to the grocery store and being the only person wearing a mask. Of feeling like I have to defend my choices to not attend large gatherings—or even small ones. I’m tired of feeling guilty for not spending time with friends. For not having the courage to go out and make new ones.
I’m tired of explaining that no one is entitled to my presence. Not in regular life, and certainly not during a pandemic. That I am not obligated to risk my health and well-being, nor to risk someone else’s health and well-being, just for “together” time.
I know that others think holidays are important. Traditions are important. Families are important. Friends are important. But not more important than staying alive. And there are other ways. Letters. Zoom. Small gatherings outdoors. But it seems that precautions have been thrown out the window. I get dirty looks for using hand sanitizer in the grocery store.
And every decision involving other people requires a magnitude of mental math. Calculations upon calculations. What is the risk? What do I want? What are the options? How important is what I want to do compared to the risk? Are we in a surge? What do hospitals look like right now? How are vaccines coming along? I’m vaccinated—are they? How do I know? What are my health concerns? What are theirs? Am I putting them at risk? Should I get tested? Do I quarantine? Before? After? Both? And if I do feel comfortable, where does my comfort end? How do I set boundaries? Does the situation offer me the ability to back out if I feel unsafe?
I’ve experimented with my comfort zone. Tried out things I thought would make me uncomfortable (hint: they did). I’ve skipped events I really wanted to attend. (Yes, it made me sad.) I’ve had in-depth conversations about the risk and other people in my life’s comfort with engagement.
The math is exhausting. And the problem is that there’s no single equation I can run. There’s no right answer. There are too many variables and they’re always changing. Most of the time, it’s easier to just stay home.
And yet… every week, it seems the pandemic is creeping closer. In the early days, it was four degrees of separation between me and a person who’d contracted the disease. Then three degrees of separation. Then two degrees. Now it’s one degree. Cousins. Friends. Other writers I know.
And I can’t help but wonder: when will it be me?