"Tales From The Covid"- Jane Ranzman

Beware the ides of March! There I was, supposed to get the next installment in a series of shots to diminish the chronic pain in my neck. I wasn’t sure whether I should keep the appointment because of the Covid situation, so I emailed my doctor via the patient portal. 

“Is it safe over there?” I gulped while typing the message. I hoped he would tell me to cancel and stay home like an obedient citizen. (The Hippocratic oath says Do No Harm, doesn’t it?)

“Sure. As long as you don’t take public transportation.” I could almost feel him shrug beneath his PPE gear. He never mentioned the obvious—I would be hurling myself upon the summit of Covid-19, Mount Sinai Hospital. The very source of the shocking photos of nurses sporting protective garbage bags that splattered the front-page news. My neck started to throb.

My first touch with Covid-19 occurred a few weeks earlier before the virus reached pandemic status. I was ill with a respiratory infection so severe, my usual asthma inhalers were ineffective weapons against the pain and tightness in my chest. I crawled to the urgent care center two blocks away. I was immediately tested for Covid-19. I thought it would be no big deal. A quick blood test? Before I knew it, swabs the size of mammoth locusts were shoved up my nostrils seeming to reach my brain. A few caring friends resented that I got the test for the emerging plague when many front-line workers couldn’t. How unfair! I explained that I was flagged because of my job as an adjunct professor at a local college. Apparently, that’s considered high-risk work. I thought it was just low paying. 

The doctor at the urgent care instructed me to go straight to a hospital emergency because of my breathing condition. “Don’t wait ‘til midnight when it gets worse,” she warned, while handing me an official document from the Department of Health and Human Services, a modern-day divine commandments. “You must protect others from YOU!  Wear a mask and gloves at all times, disinfect everything continuously including door knobs, and self-quarantine for at least 14 days.” This didn’t exactly sound like a get-well blessing. Do I have to hang this on my doorpost? I felt like a low-life, but without the sex. I decided to head back to my apartment to remain at home with my dog, rather than spending my last moments on earth alone in a densely packed ICU. Choking most of the night, I braced myself for the end. But the terrier and I drifted off and miraculously woke up the next morning. She wanted her breakfast. I waited 10 days to get the negative test result. At least I got a head start on my social isolation.

For adventure, I’d take an occasional jaunt to the drug store next to my apartment building. Over those two weeks at home, I had lost my appetite for real meals, so I applied myself to consuming junk food. My pandemic panacea was marshmallow eating. I’ll bet you thought no one would trek to Duane Reade with mask and gloves to buy those ever-present Kraft bags filled with toxic, shelf stable delectables. Not so! I figured I might perish, so why not indulge my toddler palette! Who really needed to be thin now anyway?  On the other hand, I could live, suffering the reward of an added ten pounds of Covid-induced misery.

As directed, I had been religiously staying at home, listening to the sirens screech around-the-clock. Now, after almost two months of confinement, the prospect of going to the hospital for an excruciating procedure would be a welcome change of pace, an outing -- my only human face-to-face contact was chatting with the cashiers at Duane Reade.

So, how have a spent all this time besides snacking?  I honestly can’t say. It’s as if the days have blended into one another. My head continually aches, and I am numbed by the constant calling of the news and Zoom. I have difficulty concentrating. I suffer from fits of boredom and agitation—needing to do something, but at the same time, feeling an overwhelming inertia to do nothing. And to top it all off, my dog Sweetie was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease just as Mother’s Day approached. My mother died of that, so it doesrun in families. I’ve been hysterical for days. Will the terrier soon hateme? Perhaps my sister will swoop in to persuade my canine to write me out of her will. Already she’s forgotten how to use her wee wee pads. I wonder what’s in store for me –that’s if I have the opportunity to age . . .

And there’s so much bad news. Retail is failing. My favorite Neiman Marcus flagship store at Hudson Yards is in trouble and has announced a corporate restructuring. I thought about how it opened last spring, generating lots of crowds and excitement. Preparing for a headshot photo shoot, I found that I had nothing to wear in my closet full of sample sale designer clothes and shoes. So, I forayed into the rarified atmosphere of Neiman’s women’s active wear department with the mission of finding a lavish cashmere sweater at an affordable price. In my sweater hopping frenzy, I somehow got locked inside the sparkling new dressing room beneath a tsunami of pink castaways. Battle-weary and dejected, I was released by a bevy of salesgirls, recent college grads that used their collective acumen and apps to find the one,that perfect pink cashmere.. After scouring the store, they presented me with a simple, rose-colored crewneck sweater that was an ideal match – or at least slimming.  And the fuzzy gem was on sale! This store is a keeper, I thought. Now, it’s just one in a myriad of toppling businesses.

 So, on the day of my Mount Sinai appointment, I took a taxi to the hospital to be cautious. Sitting in the back seat of the car as it whizzed up fashionable Madison Avenue, I was shocked at the sea of closures before me, block after block. Many storefronts already looked shabby –posters slapped on windows touted realtor numbers. There were the heart-wrenching goodbye notes. “WE HOPE TO SERVE THE SURVIVORS OF the COVID.” The mercilessvirus has taught me that I need to make the moments of my life count.

The pit in my stomach was tightening. Memories flooded my thoughts from just a few months ago – noisy holiday parties with tipsy friends and tasty hors d'oeuvres, twinkling Christmas lights festooning store windows, a quick hamburger at Doc Watson’s, a warm neighborhood sports bar with a friendly wait staff, of would-be actors. And precious hugs. It all disappeared instantaneously into a mysterious virus vapor. It was still hard for me to wrap my mind around it. And more important, the souls that have passed. The funerals are getting closer. Friends have lost loved ones. I call to console them. I could cry a mountain of tears.

The taxi turned onto Fifth Avenue as we neared the hospital’s medical offices. On my right, I saw the white plastic topped party tents you typically saw at celebrations. But here there were no tables with crystal vases and flowers there. There were no white-gloved bartenders. The steel-framed tents had been repurposed to contain Covid patient overflow. Outdoor canopies housed assembly lines of cots with ventilators.   

Police were positioned along the streets directing traffic and pedestrians. I observed a line of masked zombies marching along Fifth Avenue toward Alfredo’s pizza truck. Masses of protectively garbed hospital workers, crowded around the gleaming vehicle dispensing those slices of heaven. So much for social distancing. Well, I at least hope it was good pizza.

“We are living in a war zone. Like Gaza.” I said to the driver. As I spoke, two massive trucks on each side suddenly flanked the car; each appeared to be half a block long. My heart was pounding, as I feared the worst.

“Are those steel trucks for food distribution” I asked the driver tentatively. 

He responded dryly. “ Those trucks are morgues. They hold the bodies.” Why, I wondered, did they have to park so close to the food cart?  I felt nauseated.

In the midst of this sea of human mortality, I thought about my life, as if an MRI machine scanned it. I’ve taunted people with “my busyness,” a distinctly New York tool of intimidation. I bragged to feel worthy, puffing myself up over how many activities I could squeeze into a day. But I was continually racing somewhere as a distraction from my own discontent. I didn’t care enough about others, about the hunger in my own city and throughout the globe. I thought about how much I really depended on my colorist.

The cab turned down 98thstreet. It had begun rain. The sky was gray – its standard uniform over the past couple of months.The ride cost over $35.00 to go twenty blocks. A bit of price gauging, but nothing compared to the price of Sweetie’s chicken. I was wearing plastic gloves that were too large, so it was hard to maneuver sliding my worn credit card out of my wallet.  Fumbling with my plastic fingers, I pushed my Amex through the glass divider-separating passenger from driver.

“Be safe,” he said.

“Be safe” I replied. The new Namaste. I stepped out into the cool, possibly infected air.