A personal essay from University of Otago academic Amanda Barusch on living in a United States that has lost more than half a million people to Covid-19
Half a million. Half a million Americans are dead from Covid-19. Early this year, the Public Broadcasting System started running stories of the Covid dead at the end of the evening news broadcast. Little video obituaries. Real tear jerkers. I used to turn the TV off.
But I no longer allow myself this luxury. In a kind of penance for my privilege, I force myself to watch—to witness—these videos. Out of respect. At the end of each one, they mention the age of the deceased. When it’s younger than me, I groan. When it’s older, I sometimes cry. My husband doesn’t watch; says he won’t indulge in survivor’s guilt until he’s a survivor.
Here’s how privileged I am. Lockdown is almost a relief. I work from home, teaching via Zoom. I had a garden this year and my tomatoes were exceptional. A yoga teacher down the street gives us outdoor classes when the weather permits. I go out of my house every day to walk the dog. I bake sour dough bread on Mondays with a starter from my daughter’s partner. Four of us “lady bakers” share 50-pound (22.67 kilo) bags of flour delivered to my door by FedEx. I order groceries online and pay a $15 fee to have a young person in a mask deliver them. My houseplants are flourishing. My income is secure. I don’t worry about paying the rent or losing my health insurance. I worry about all the plastic and cardboard we’re using so I keep it in the garage and resolve to reuse it.
My privileges put me among a very small, very lucky set of the 7.8 billion human beings on this planet. Every once in a while, I bump into someone less fortunate and apologise. I walk away reminding myself that this is the year when we must be especially careful with one another.
I’ve had two Covid tests so far; both negative. In the hours before the email comes you can’t help but wonder what you’ll do if it’s positive. I consider keeping it secret because, once you tell, a world of blame lands on your shoulders alongside all that terror. So far, our family has only had one death. My sister-in-law’s sister. The woman who helped raise her. She was hospitalised for seven days before they declared her recovered and sent her home. “BEAT COVID!!!” she posted on Facebook. A few days later she died of heart failure.
The Superbowl was a highlight. Not the game, but the adverts. My favorite was for Bud Light Seltzer Lemonade. A man’s voice says, “2020 was a lemon of a year.” Then lemons rain down on an urban landscape, biffing people on the head as they run around like hamsters. Slapstick and giggles. Every other week, we play word games with the family across the street via Zoom. We look forward to these competitions and rehash them later to extract every drop of fun. This is the year that fun became more essential than ever.
The computer site kept crashing when it was finally time for us to register to get our vaccinations. I couldn’t get the thing to work but, thanks to our kids, my husband ended up with five vaccine appointments. His 90-year-old bachelor friend ended up with none. A neighbour we saw in the hills said a woman from her church worked at the health department. Whenever an appointment came free, she slotted in a church member. I listen to We Take Care of our Own by Bruce Springsteen. This is the year when we all rely on each other’s generosity.
Police cars squatted on either side of the parking lot entrance with bright lights swirling. Lines of cars snaked towards white canvas booths with red signs: “COVID VACCINATIONS.” Young people in orange vests waved flashlights to direct drivers through the drifting snow. I asked one if he was cold and he said “Oh no ma’am. There’s down in this vest.” This is a year when the heroes wear orange vests.
As I waited in my car, I watched a young man walk slowly across the lanes of cars. Hair fell to his shoulders and he clutched a wool blanket to his chest. As he got closer, I could see that he had no socks. His face was so young, so pale that my heart clenched.
But I didn’t want to lose my place in line so I just sat there wondering how to close the distance between us. I promised myself that, if anyone tried to kick him out, I’d pull out my phone and make a video. The boy made his way towards the “vaccination booth” and stood in a corner shuffling his feet. He was still there when a woman in an orange vest reached forward to swab my arm with alcohol. He was still there when she gave me a hand-written vaccination card. He was still there when I drove home through the snow. That boy and millions like him are still there.
