130 Why Bernice had to Wait 3 Days for her Cheetos
Megan K
When I think back on my time during the COVID-19 pandemic, I find myself sitting in the passenger seat of a freezing car, parked outside of my high school. Looking to my left, I see my mother, teaching a 9th grade math class from her laptop. When I look forward, I see the slowly thawing Head Lake at the core of my small, central-Ontario town. Looking to my right, I see my school: the only reliable source of unlimited, high-speed internet we could access. While others around the world were locked up inside, I spent the latter half of my grade 11 year watching biology lessons under a blanket in my mom’s car. I spent my 17th birthday under heavy restrictions. We were under instruction to significantly limit social gatherings, any non-essential employment was on hold, and the air was thick with uncertainty.
Three months into the pandemic, I started working in a long-term care home. Every day, I donned a mask, gloves, isolation gown, and face shield. At 5:45am, the PSWs lined up for their daily COVID-19 tests. At 8am, family members began dropping off gifts: blankets, photo albums, and snacks for their loved ones. Rooms slowly filled with these carefully documented gifts, where they sat for 72 hours, waiting to be deemed “safe” for resident use. Then began the daily cycle of questions: when can Martha have the blanket her daughter dropped off? Why can’t Bernice eat her Cheetos?
Apart from the disappointment surrounding delayed access to snacks, the fear in long–term care was palpable. The threat of an outbreak loomed over staff members. Every positive test result in our community resulted in a wave of chaos and uncertainty. The severity of our situation fostered an environment of blame. Any hint of socialization was perceived as a direct attack to the safety of our most vulnerable people. When the first positive COVID-19 case appeared within our walls, we turned to blame. We blamed the government for continuously attempting to re-open restaurants. We blamed kids in Miami for continuing to party while COVID-19 numbers soared. We blamed the unvaccinated for their unwavering selfishness. Community members blamed us for our failed security that allowed cases to spread. In times of distress, we searched for explanations — which, however unjustified, were easy to find. The most challenging piece of COVID-19 for me was letting go of other peoples’ choices; I had to cope with the lack of control that I had.
Fear and blame circled around the globe, as did the many trends we recall (often with admiration and nostalgia) today. My experience, however, was slightly different. While many were locked inside apartment buildings making whipped coffee, cloud pancakes, and sourdough, my lockdown was spent outdoors. My small town allowed me to remain socially isolated while snowshoeing, cross-country skiing, running, and exploring our acreage. I look back fondly on the many, many days I spent outside. This freedom made my lockdown feel much less restrictive than that of many others.
Our low population and physical isolation from surrounding neighbourhoods meant that our community’s risk was significantly lower than those in more densely populated areas. As society began to adapt to the pandemic, public education systems adapted differently to the risk. Some school boards remained completely online, others adopted hybrid models to reduce the number of kids in classrooms. My school board adopted the “octomester” system — we spent 22 days learning an entire course’s content, then promptly moved on. Although some aspects of
COVID-19 were positive, I recall getting very little enjoyment from 6 hours a day of twelfth grade Calculus. The pandemic’s influence on learning is currently a hot topic of discussion, and although I appreciated in-person learning, I recall very little from my final year of high school.
COVID-19 coincided with some very significant life changes for me. I graduated (virtually), moved out of my parents’ house, and started university. Everyone empathized with me for “missing” my first year of university — but I fully appreciated the slower transition to university life. I got to experience my first semester on training wheels. As I finally began to adjust to my new life, restrictions were lifted. Classes returned in person and for the first time, I sat with 500 other students, anxious and eager to master the concepts of Introductory Chemistry II. Every day, I crawled out of my dorm room to find coffee and empty study spaces on campus and every day, COVID-19 became a less and less frequent topic of discussion.
While the illness still impacted people around the world, we — mentally, at least — started to move on. The irony of my COVID-19 story is that when I eventually got it, I had no idea where it came from. I evaded the sickness while working directly with COVID-positive patients in long-term care. I stayed healthy all throughout my first year of university, despite spending my time in packed lecture halls. I tested positive three years into the pandemic. For me, it felt like a common cold. At the time, our response felt inadequate; I was constantly angry at people who disrespected the rules of isolation. Now, I struggle to grasp how rapidly we moved on and resumed “normal” life. COVID-19 coincided with so many big changes in my life. I grew up — into an adult — during COVID-19. I often wonder if the changes I have experienced are because I’m growing up, or because of the pandemic. Politics feel more divisive, economic trajectories are demoralizing, and overall, the world just feels slightly scarier. There has been a tangible cultural shift towards despondence, but I remain uncertain of whether to attribute this shift to COVID-19 or my 20s. Five years after the initial lockdown, my life is completely and utterly different. Whether we realize it or not, the world changed as a result of the pandemic.
