My thumb moves to a familiar spot on my ring finger. It likes to twirl the cool metal around and around.  Now instead of white gold there is just an indentation. Sudden disappointment boils up from a deep-rooted place, and I remember; I am no longer wearing my wedding band.  The circular symbol of our almost thirteen-year marriage was removed as a preventative measure; the risk of anything viral lurking within its crevices was substantial.  Not unlike everything else that has happened in the past month; I acknowledged and accepted this as a continual reminder of the new normal.  At the Outset, information surrounding COVID-19 was vague; my wires were crossed with a recipe of overreaction blended with utter alarm and a sprinkle of worst-case-scenario. Initially, the measures the general public was taking seemed dramatic. A solid week before our state had its first case of COVID-19, the grocery shelves were barren and toilet paper and hand sanitizer became our new currency.

The next week my panic was palatable, and It felt like I was beginning to spiral. I understand this because my husband; a barometer of my moods, told me so.  It started at work with severe reduction of workforce. As co-workers were furloughed, the guilt of surviving each cut was making me feel sick. Sleep was eluding me. Determining that reinforcements were needed; a daily yoga routine was resurrected as well as baby steps to a meditation practice. I played an outdated yoga DVD like a favorite record; Yvette, the instructor started to feel like an old friend. Yvette reminds me to breathe.  The news was revealing that this virus was deadly to anyone with underlying conditions and the elderly. Concern for my relatives and friends was heightened. The word carrier had come to light in the media.  As a child, I innocently handed out strep throat to schoolmates like it was candy on the playground; I was a strep throat carrier. Much like an early carrier of COVID-19, my symptoms were invisible. Taking measures as if I had already contracted the virus; my own stay at home mandate was executed weeks before our governor announced the statewide order. Gone was the pure joy felt when Punxsutawney Phil did not see his shadow this year, promising an early spring.

Spring had just been canceled, courtesy of the Center for Disease Control.

Days after my self-imposed isolation; my husband came home, his arms filled with boxes containing computer, wires, a phone, and a complicated looking list of set-up instructions to work from home. A television room re-purposed as a home office, using a small banquet table as a desk. With both of us at home now, a small sense of security emerged. Moments of peace dotted our new stay-at-home landscape.  The gentle wind ringing a neighbor’s wind chimes, the pitter patter of rain against our windows, the brown of winter giving way to the colors of spring.   As the walls of the house began to feel smaller, we started to hike the woods abutting our land. Little glimpses of our old life would shine through; an email from our favorite yoga teacher with an online link to her classes, a note about a farm share, and the local market offering touch-free pick up service of groceries.

Sense of time began to feel lost; days of the weeks cloning one other. Marking time by grocery orders and a newly revised work schedule, consisting of twenty percent less hours. Every time one of us had to leave the house to do a grocery pick up, at the point of return; despite ample precautions, we didn’t feel well. Paranoia began to set in as seasonal allergies have emerged mimicking the COVID-19 dry cough and accelerating neurosis about contracting the virus. Occasionally the enormity of it all pivots me into an instant hot flash and takes me for a joy ride on my own menopausal roller coaster. I have frequent conversations with the three remaining stones that have taken up residency in my kidney’s and plead with them not to pass, requiring hospitalization.

This past month as the virus spread with vigor; it was easy to go down the research rabbit hole attempting to soak up everything COVID-19. Wringing my red, raw hands together, hours were spent combing through the CDC website and pouring over World Health Organization articles.  The evidence is now proven that there was never an overreaction; instead, there was an under-reaction. Too little too late repeat on a loop in my head. In the pie chart of life, the last thirty-days represent a sliver. It becomes obvious to me that living in the moment is not only crucial to our mental health; it may also be essential to our survival. Remember to breathe.