THE CURRENT coronavirus overtaking the globe has certainly put a damper on ordinary life. Thanks to the media, which I have been ingesting nonstop, thoughts of overcrowded hospitals lacking respirators and nurses fill my head, making it impossible to summon up a good mood. And last Saturday night I gave my last dinner party for the foreseeable future, if I even have a future. (At times like this I envy cats.)
One of the two invited guests—let’s call her The Spreader—had the temerity to arrive blatantly sick. Assessing her condition at the door I was naturally alarmed and gave her the third degree, but she swore it was just a common cold with an accompanying cough, not the dreaded virus. So when she called me yesterday to say that someone present at a meeting she attended late last week was diagnosed with Covid-19, prompting her to get herself tested, I was dismayed, depressed and angry. Now I am simply waiting to die. This is a silly reaction on my part I know, yet there it is.
As for the bright side: My husband, grasping at straws which as we all know are pretty hard to find these days, posited that if The Spreader turns out to be positive, he and I will rightfully be tested, and if we get sick this early in the pandemic, at least here in Maine, we likely will be able to score a couple of respirators in the hospital.
Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid.