85 My Covid Story
Kira Hemingway
I was seventeen. It was only supposed to be an extra week of March Break in my final year of high school. Then I was cutting my own bangs, finding increasingly creative ways to sit on the couch all day, learning how to bake bread. The stores ran out of yeast and flour because apparently in times of uncertainty, with nothing else to do, humanity will return to the sanctity of kneading dough. In the early (weeks? months?) it was just my dad, my sibling, and I orbiting each other in the house. In Ontario, school technically resumed online but given the global crisis, it was declared that grades wouldn’t drop. Why bother? I must have read a lot of books in lockdown, but March to June is a bit of a black hole in my memory. I didn’t stay up to date with the changing restrictions and guidelines; I stayed at home. Dad bought groceries. When our bubble expanded, I saw my mom again (kid of divorce things). I think I got my diploma in the mail. The prom dress I bought in February sat in my closet until my mom suggested having our own little prom — I guess prom is never much like the movies anyway.
In June, I flew out to join my friend in Saskatchewan. In hindsight, it was nerve wracking, crammed into a tin can with wings, alongside all the other masked sardines (who knows where they had been?). I kept my mask on for the whole three-hour drive back from the airport, a plastic tarp separating me from the others. That summer, in that tiny town with thirteen churches where the cattle outnumbered the people, was liminal. There’s no other way to describe it — looking back, it was the ache of being on the edge of eighteen with all the nostalgia of mischief-filled smiles captured in a faded photograph. Less than a thousand people out in the prairies. COVID was only a news story, there were no masks or limited gatherings. We worked and we played. My first hangover burned behind my eyes while I sat in a church pew on Sunday morning. I found love that summer, ironically in the place I had left behind — we spent hours and hours on FaceTime, two provinces apart. He grew a little patch of sunflowers because I love them, brought me a bouquet once I was back home. We’ll have been together five years this fall, and I love him more deeply than I could have ever imagined.
September brought a new wave of cases and re-tightened restrictions. After a mandatory COVID test, I started university in residence an hour away from home, hoping for some approximation of an authentic experience even though all classes were online. Capacity was halved, everyone in their own little cell. Masking was required beyond the doorway, even in the bathroom, unless we were actively brushing our teeth or in the shower. Meals were only served for an hour. The dining room tables were divided with clear plastic shower curtains between every seat and so we ate like fish out of water, half-hearted garbled conversation three meals a day. Making friends was near impossible. I’m so grateful my lifelong friend was in residence with me and that my new partner broke restrictions to come visit me but still I sunk deeper and deeper, a stone in the ocean. Isolation is a silent killer. I moved home in November and only failed half of my classes that semester. Once the school year ended, I decided to take a break from post-secondary education.
Over a year after the pandemic started, I started work at a long-term care home that specialized in dementia care. Thankfully, everyone was already vaccinated and there weren’t many deaths, COVID or otherwise. Masking and weekly rapid antigen tests were required for the staff; family visits were allowed with restrictions. Residents didn’t wear masks because it caused them great distress, and most would constantly take them off anyway. My job was primarily to support the PSWs — assisting with bed making, mealtimes, and providing social connection for residents. My favourite part was helping the life enrichment staff run fun crafts and gossiping with the ladies while I painted their nails. We went through several COVID outbreaks on my floor and honestly, it sucked. We had to wear full PPE (mask, gown, gloves, face shield) and get tested more frequently. Residents were required to stay in their separate rooms. I can’t imagine the fear and confusion they must have experienced, their daily routine upended, not fully understanding what’s happening around them. I can’t imagine what it must have been like working in healthcare the first year of the pandemic — the stress, the fear, the loss.
One of the themes of this course is blame, which is often rooted in fear, confusion, and even anger. I remember reading posts and new stories about the rise in xenophobia because the emergence of COVID was traced to China. Trump was calling COVID “the China virus,” which mirrors 1918 influenza being called “the Spanish flu.” I remember hearing COVID was the result of people eating bats, and those sources were definitely looking down on a culture that could even consider eating bats. People who disregarded recommendations and restrictions were also blamed, I remember seeing posts shunning those who still travelled and partied for spring break. Part of me feels guilty that I was technically part of that group who disregarded travel restrictions to fly out to Saskatchewan. What if I had brought COVID into that middle-of-nowhere town? This was before the vaccine was developed, it would have overwhelmed the minimal healthcare infrastructure out there if most of the town was seriously ill.
Ultimately, my experience of the COVID pandemic was a collection of strange fragments. I definitely still feel a sense of loss from not getting my high school graduation, not having any of the normalcy of starting university. I still feel like I’m in high school sometimes, the ending was never resolved. It still echoes. My younger sibling didn’t have a normal graduation either but at least they got to walk a little stage outside with a cap and gown. I couldn’t help but feel a quiet little longing, standing in the masked crowd. My prom dress is still collecting dust in my closet, and no one ever asked me to prom. I wish I could have slow danced like every cliche high school movie. On bad days, I feel like I’m permanently stuck in liminality. However, I’m incredibly grateful that none of my loved ones were hurt or even seriously inconvenienced by the pandemic. I’m grateful I still had a summer like an indie coming of age film, that I found love when the world was turned upside-down.
