Pandemic Diary

Day One

These first few days have passed by in a daze. We are living in a dreamlike state, watching as our whole world gets swept up and turned inside out, reality spun on its axis. There is no more school, despite what they said. There are no sports, no going out, no events to look forward to. Just an endless cycle of todays and tomorrows. There are no concerts, no neighborhood parties, no honking horns and bustling sidewalks. It’s as if the city’s fallen asleep, and the quietness is hurting my ears.

Day Four

A crate the size of a small coffee table arrived on our doormat last week. After five days of quarantine in the garage Mom finally snapped on her latex and brought it inside. At the expense of two disposable tongs and half a dozen Clorox wipes, the contents were extracted. Six jars, each nearly a foot tall, of some of the largest white beans I’ve seen in my life. Of course Dad was the culprit; he has been trying to enlighten us all on the strategic importance of stockpiling goods for weeks now, and to his frustration no one has listened. I guess he finally decided that it was up to him alone to protect the family, one can of supersized Cannellinis at a time.

Day Ten

It’s almost midnight, I’m eating Phish Food ice cream at the kitchen table and Mom is standing over the counter feeding her bread-child. It’s name is Bertha. 

“Jay! Get more flour!” Mom's arms are covered to her elbows in what looks like sticky white paint, and her hair is powdered with the stuff. “Quick, in the cupboard! No, not that one, the lower one!” I watch as Dad fumbles through the cabinets, both eyes still glued to his phone. “I said, the one where I always keep it!”

“I don’t think keeping sourdough starter is meant to be taken so seriously, Mom,” Sarah says once the flour has safely reached our mother’s hands and Bertha has been administered the appropriate serving. 

“Yeah, well right now she’s the only child in this house who actually eats what I feed them.” 

Dad is lifted from his phone, looks straight at me. I look at Sarah who looks back at me with a “we’re gonna get it now” look. Mom just keeps looking at the counter. At the sloppy white mess that is apparently her daughter now.

Day Sixteen

Mom got Bertha from our neighbors, and yes, “she” is alive. A carefully maintained ratio of flour and water that bubbles and grows in size every day it’s fed.  At least, it was alive when the neighbors gave it to us four days ago. We’ll see how long that lasts.

Day Twenty-Two

There are so many headlines. The numbers in the corner of the screen say 1:12 in the morning and I know I should turn my phone off and go to bed. But I’m lost in the depths of the internet, buried in twisting trails of Google searches and links leading from one article to the next. And there are so many headlines.

U.K. death toll hits 20,000, surpassing Italy. The government is failing its health care workers. Lockdown to be extended through June until further notice. What’s happened to the world? It wasn’t so long ago when everything was normal. Everything happened so fast and yet our old reality feels like a lifetime ago. Everyone keeps talking about when the world will “go back to normal”, when we can go to school, have parties, and hang out again. But article after article, forecasting the reality of living in a “post-pandemic society”, where everyone works from home, shops online and doesn’t hug or shake hands, seem to suggest that maybe our “normal” has been changed forever.

I’m not angry about it anymore. How could I be angry about our lives being changed temporarily because of the virus while others lives are being changed forever. And others’ lives are being ended. 352, 956 as of right now. So I can’t be angry. Even at Dad. People like him are being responsible, trying to protect our world from slipping even further down the roads of ignorance and blame. No, I’m just sad. Sad that this twisted dystopia could be the future for our world. Sad that I’ll wake up one day and find that this bad dream hasn’t been a dream at all. 

Day Thirty-three

Get up and roll up the blinds, first the window by the bed, then the one by the desk. Take the pillows off the bed, and straighten the sheets, then pillows back on. Make sure they’re fluffed. Wash my face and get dressed and I’m downstairs by eight o’clock. Just like every other morning. Same as yesterday was and tomorrow will be. Some people call it a cloud. A big heavy black one that gets stuck up inside you. That’s how Mom described it. But I don’t think it feels like that. Doesn’t feel like anything.

Day Thirty-Four

When Bertha grew too big to fill even our biggest tupperware container, Mom decided it was time to make a sourdough. And so the kitchen disappeared in another white storm and we were sent out mid-lunch like civilians leaving a war-zone. Molly dropped half her quesadilla on the way out; she was too scared to go back and get it though. 

According to Mom’s phone the dough is supposed to double in size within the first two hours of leaving it on the counter. So far it has been one hour and Bertha is looking exactly the same. But nobody says a word. Dad makes salmon for dinner because Mom is dealing with the move and the house and Sarah and plus she’s exhausted from the Bertha debacle. The dough never rose, and Bertha is pale and cakey and lifeless, feeling kind of like us all. Mom doesn’t look much better. When Sarah freaks out at the dinner table and has another “episode”, I can see Mom’s eyes getting hot and she finally screams “I’m done!” and leaves the kitchen. Dad says look what you’ve done to your mother and I can see his eyes getting hot too. Three children and a breadchild is a lot for anyone to handle, especially in the middle of a pandemic.