I’ve Traveled Half Way Around The World

And now I’m afraid to leave my building.

That picture above? That could be me planning my once-in-a-lifetime trip to Antarctica.

Or maybe my once-in-a-lifetime tour of the capitals of China.

Scratch that. My once-in-a-lifetime visit to …

How many earth-shaking trips do you get in a lifetime? As many as you can manage as far as I’m concerned.

I’ve had all the above and more, and if I ever win the lottery, I have a list of places I still want to see. But, these days, you could swap out the passport for hand sanitizer, ditch the hat for my hoodie, hang that camera on the nearest hook, and I’ll charge my iPhone while I secure my mask and gloves.

I’m planning the scariest trip of my life.

Not to the four corners of the earth, the travel that used to excite me and set my sister’s teeth on edge until I was back safe in the USA again.

“You’ve always been more adventurous than me,” she said when I was planning safaris with a pail of water for a shower, and she was looking up 5-star sleeps in Hilton Head.

I think of Rita every day. Her taste for luxury fueled my own as I watched her step away from our blue-collar upbringing and become a stylish force of nature.

My sister would rock this lockdown, as she did everything else in her life.

Especially when it came to protecting her beloved Hal, felled by a stroke that put him in her excellent care for almost 20 years. She would have masked up even if she never left home, such was her dedication to rules and regulations.

Okay, she made exceptions. Like the time she arranged for Hal to take a run down a ski slope on a rig designed for the disabled. The family threw a fit, but you didn’t say no to Rita. Hal didn’t sail down the slope so much as fall a** over teakettle on jury-rigged skis when his volunteer lost control of the chair.

The paramedics came to Hal’s rescue; luckily he didn’t break a bone. Not even his dignity. What’s a broken pair of expensive sunglasses and a bloody nose when you have a good story to tell? Especially if you’ve been handed a once-in-a-lifetime chance to break out of your wheelchair and feel the wind in your face as you try for the last time your beloved sport.

It was one of the best days of his life, at least since his stroke. A few moments of freedom from his sentence as an invalid.

They’re both gone now, and I’m glad Rita and Hal don’t have to confront the virus, not with their age and infirmities, and my sister’s tendency to worry about her loved ones. She’d be up all night praying for her far-flung family — the boys, their wives, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, cousins, neighbors, begging them to stay safe. Like you did with Hal on the slopes, we might say. “That was different,” she’d say, ignoring the dig.

I’m worn out even thinking of the people who loved Rita and depended on her prayers. Even the atheists among us believed she had special pull with Someone Up There, and we’d ply her with requests to “put in a word.”

I doubt even her dogged faith would be a match for this pandemic, but then I’ve learned not to underrate my sister. But where is she when we need her? When I need her?

She could do everything but leave home in her later years. I’m the adventurer she always said, but look at me now.

I’ve been halfway round the world, my best travel done after age seventy, but now I’m afraid to leave my apartment.

What will it take for me to feel safe going outside my front door?

I’m just finishing up my tenth week of quarantine, the first two because of a mild illness. I shopped three days during that time but have not seen a human in the flesh for eight weeks tomorrow.

Not the same as spending twenty years in a wheelchair, but I feel a sliver of Hal’s pain. No, I can’t go there. Maybe I felt a sliver of his excitement when the subject of my going for a walk came up in a Facetime with my daughter yesterday. She took the role of her Aunt Rita.

“Do it, Mom,” she said, as Rita would have to Hal about his flight down the mountain.

I had developed a cough a few days ago. Bizarre and a little scary. It only happened in my bathroom, a small space with no window. My airway closed up, but I was fine a few minutes later when I fled to my living room a few feet away.

I have breathing issues, asthma and COPD, which is why I’ve been obsessive about not leaving my digs. I only open my door when a neighbor (Oh bless you, dear friends) text that they’ve left a delivery for me, or signal to leave my trash for disposal.

Being outdoors does not scare me, but the four-story trek to the sidewalk does. The elevator ride that could harbor the virus, or an unmasked tenant who barges in without seeing me (it happens when they slip in looking at their phones, thinking they have the world to themselves). Or the stairway that could snap my fragile knee should I risk that means of escape.

My surgeon said when I woke up from the last surgery that the next one would be a replacement. Stay away from stairs, he said, among other advice to preserve what was left of the functioning joint.

So that eliminates walking down four flights unless there’s a fire. And how often and how well do the cleaners swab our surfaces? I haven’t heard them vacuum outside my door in months. I used to hear them several times a week before the lockdown. Are they still swabbing the elevator, the buttons, the door handle of the lobby? And if I pass someone on my way out?

There’s my fear. With 100 tenants in narrow hallways, can I be sure I won’t run into someone with the virus? Because I’m high risk, these questions torment me. I thought I had solved my problem by isolating.

“Maybe you need fresh air, Mom. Maybe your exercise isn’t enough, and you’re doing yourself some harm staying in.”

That was her diagnosis after discussing my cough. And it hit me like a fast-moving train, going to all this trouble to isolate and then inviting non-COVID pneumonia? I can’t say it didn’t occur to me after I figured out that my toothpaste was shutting down my lungs. Yes, my frigging toothpaste.

I can go in and out of my bathroom with no problems. But as soon as I start brushing my teeth, I can’t breathe. I’ve used a new brush and opened a fresh tube of toothpaste. Same problem.

Am I allergic? Have I weakened my lungs with not enough exercise or fresh air? Or too much exposure to harsh desensitizers? Who knows.

We agreed I’d start taking careful walks early in the morning before anyone uses the elevator or hallways. Better for my heart and lungs to walk in the super clean air we have these days than breathe my own recycled bad breath every day.

So I got up at 5:30 and looked out my window. No dog walkers, early morning runners or pedestrians. I’d have the street to myself to watch the sun that was starting to rise. I made coffee, put on a hoodie, and found my painter’s mask and gloves.

But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t open the door.

What had changed since I last ventured out? Why was I safer going outside this morning when yesterday, and for the previous eight weeks, I was in danger of succumbing to the virus if I left my apartment?

Nothing. Not one blasted thing.

Whatever is causing my peculiar coughing issue confirms my need for isolation. I have lung issues, possibly minor, but this coughing spell proves they haven’t gone away. Maybe the fix is more dusting, a different brand of toothpaste, or spending more time on my fire escape exercising out there in the fresh air.

I don’t know the answer, but for a virus that attacks the lungs, I need to stand back and wait for the all-clear. Maybe everyone does because it looks like this virus doesn’t play favorites. Everyone’s getting it, even kids and protesters who march with Nazi signs demanding we open things up.

I live in a city and state that’s put their foot on the neck of the curve. Hooray for us, at least in the northern part of the state. But that doesn’t mean the virus has gone away. It just means our health care system is ready for an onslaught of cases when the next spike occurs.

I read all the advice from scientists, and they don’t say to go out and about, even with a mask. Stay home is the mantra of anyone with experience. They know this virus is too new, and nobody knows what the recent let up on restrictions will bring.

Maybe I’m over-cautious. But one thing I know is that Rita and Hal are gone, and they aren’t coming back. That’s the way death is, whether you die from old age or the virus. Death is forever.

Going out for me is not like Hal’s last ski run. If I go off the skids and run into someone with the virus — I mean literally run into someone getting off the elevator — I won’t have a rollicking story about the time I took a risk and it didn’t pay off.

“You should have seen me when I ended up in the ICU on a monitor and couldn’t breathe to save my life. No, like really. I couldn’t breathe to save my life.”

“You should have seen me when I ended up in the ICU on a monitor and couldn’t breathe to save my life. No, like really. I couldn’t breathe to save my life.”

There are no do-overs with death, no resolutions to wear a mask next time or quarantine longer. Statistics that show how many will die to save the economy are merely numbers. You learn in writing classes that telling your readers about a million deaths has no impact. But describing one person dying can wreck your readers. Politicians count on that axiom.

Actual deaths are real people who are gone forever, the ones we need and love. Death is the equation we use to factor risk in own lives.

Because once it’s over, it’s over. Too soon? Too bad.

So that’s why I turned around before I even opened my front door this morning. I’m high risk; why take a chance? I’ll deal with my cough. I’ll change my toothpaste. Dust more often, use soap and water on my deliveries instead of bleach that hurts to breathe.

I’ll do something. I’ll even break down and ask my doctor for advice. There’s a novel idea. My doctor who is twiddling his thumbs because he can’t see patients because of, you know, the virus. But hey, call me, he says.

I don’t know when I’ll feel safe enough to risk the minefield I think might be waiting for me outside my door.

But I’m not going to figure it out on my own. I’m not going to make a decision based on a consultation with neighbors who tell me it will be okay because people seem to have an unwritten code to let only one person in an elevator at a time. Yeah, but the ones who barge in before you can get out…

I’m not going to listen to politicians, or business owners who have a vested interest in me walking the streets, which would probably encourage others to do the same. Nope, not me.

Will I stay inside until there’s a vaccine? Even if it takes the rest of my life?

Probably not. But before I venture out, I will need more information. About the virus, the risks, the path to my freedom. Until then, I’ll brush my teeth with baking soda. I’ll let my teeth fall out. Because I know I’ll be dead for a long, long time, but I’m not going to be dead of the virus.

I’m an editor and writer on Medium with Top Writer status. I’m also an editor for the publication, Rogues Gallery. I’ve published 55 titles on Amazon and edit for private clients. If you’d like to hire me as your editor for fiction, non-fiction, or business writing, please contact me here. If you’d like to read more of my work on Medium, click here to sign up for my newsletter. I’ll make sure you don’t miss a word. Thank you for reading.