The Pandemic Diaries began in March, 2020, when the United States “shut down” and all but essential workers were confined to “shelter in place.” We collectively closed our doors, watched and read the news, and worried about our loved ones, ourselves, and, frankly, everyone everywhere. At Passager, we were surprised that people around the world — from Australia, India, Germany, France, Canada, Iran, Belgium, Ireland, Switzerland, and across the United States started writing to us, telling us their stories and wanting to feel connected. The Passager community became global, and each piece of correspondence added a new and important moment to the record. We decided that one thing we could do was to publish as many of these pieces as possible.
We are no longer accepting new entries to this series.
Noreen Oesterlein, Woodbury, Minnesota
Journal entry, July 4, 2022
My husband and I made it through the worst of the pandemic without getting sick. Yesterday he tested positive for Covid, but thankfully is not very ill. And I began the day today, Independence Day, feeling sorry for myself as we had plans to celebrate with family and friends. I did today what I did on a sullen, cold, end-of-winter day in March of 2020 and walked the Mississippi River trails in Saint Paul to recenter myself. In 2020 my whole being was on tumble dry high with fear of all the unknowns then; sad for all of the very sick and the dying, the families who lost beloved members, those who abruptly lost jobs, teachers and students who were in turmoil and all of the hurt in our global community. As I walked the paths back then I came upon a homeless encampment and wondered how the residents stayed warm in the freezing temperatures, how did they get food and how could they stay safe in that environment. And felt shame for my lack of gratitude for our snug and secure life. We have a warm home, we are retired so no jobs to lose and have resources for food and medical care. I made a promise to myself that day to never forget to be grateful for our good fortune. I almost broke that oath until I walked the river paths this morning and remembered.
Joanie HF Zosike, New Jersey
Journal entry, July 1, 2022
My mother Gloria passed away on January 6 at the age of 95, after a long journey with Alzheimer’s and congestive heart failure. It was devastating to lose her.
She never got COVID. That would have been too much.
Our brother Carl flew to NJ from his home in Switzerland. He is a singer with the Zurich Opera company. Apparently, little care was given for safety. In his dressing room, nine out of eleven people had come down with the virus. Despite a negative test, Carl didn’t feel well when he got on the plane. By the time he landed, he felt vile. When he arrived at our house, he retested and got a strong positive result.
All three of us had to go into quarantine and plans for the live commemoration had to be canceled. However, we held a well-attended celebration of her life on ZOOM and are now moving toward the actual burial in Los Angeles to be held in August.
People keep saying, “You guys just can’t catch a break.” But I think about all the people who, at the beginning of the pandemic, were unable to see their loved ones when they were dying and were never able to bury them. Even though we were in quarantine on the morning Mom died, the hospital allowed us to be with her during her last hours. That was a blessing for which we are deeply grateful.
Shirley Nelson, Florence, Oregon
Journal Entry, July 1, 2022
It’s back. At the Senior Retirement residence where my husband and I live, we are tested often. Earlier this week we were told a staff member had the disease and was recuperating at home. Testing resulted in 3 cases among residents. They are confined to their rooms for now; all have been completely vaccinated so should not have severe symptoms.
The rest of us are able to come and go, eat in the dining room, etc. Group social gatherings in the building are mostly canceled and we are asked to wear masks when not in our apartments. The best laid plans . . .
Nancy Buck, Chester Springs, Pennsylvania
Journal entry, November 23, 2021
I’m a 7th grade English teacher who taught in-person during the pandemic, while navigating numerous quarantines, family illnesses, a broken foot, and the death of an aging parent. This entry is from the family’s first pandemic vacation, a year to the day after the death of my father.
Waiter, there’s a mermaid in my drink. Oh, wait, I think it’s me. And look, I’m starting to swim.
I am out. Out of school. Out of my burst bubble. Out of my pandemic mindset, I think. I am dining out, literally, on Duval Street. The Key West breeze gently carries the scents of salt air and grilled fish to our streetside table at Lucy’s Retired Surfers Bar. It lifts my hair as I lean in for a family selfie. Together at last – our first family vacation since the pandemic, since the “kids’” bouts of Covid, since the loss of my father a year ago today, and the countless quarantines. My first masked airplane ride brought us to this – my most memorable dinner.
It’s not the balsamic reduction tuna lingering in my memory, nor the cocorita, garnished with perfectly toasted coconut. It’s the little plastic mermaid poised on the rim, reminding me of what I need.
My family bobs to a girl strumming and singing “Goodbye Earl.” A crowd gathers. I am surrounded by strangers, riding the same wave. I am not afraid. I sing along, far away from standing double-masked in front of my class, straining my voice to teach, knowing I am lucky, moving simultaneously from online to in-person students, wondering how many more waves we will see this school year.
With a flick of my finger, the mermaid dives in. And for the moment, she’s free. Just like me.
Mary Ellen Talley, Seattle, Washington
Journal entry, June 24, 2022
All but the youngest of our grandchildren have been vaccinated, all resumed school, and largely dropped mask wearing in classrooms, but receive notices when a student in a class has Covid. Sometimes my second-grade granddaughter will announce that she can’t play with a friend at school because someone is positive and they keep the classrooms separated during recesses. Our daughter is good about warning us when someone in her family has a known exposure in case we want to avoid a visit. Sadly, we all tend to be less “huggy.” We realize every contact includes an element of risk.
It has been our annual summer delight to take our grandchildren to see outdoor musicals at the Kitsap Forest Theater in Bremerton, Washington. This year, we took the five, eight, and thirteen-year-old to see Beauty and the Beast. We all had masks in our pockets, but didn’t wear them. We are emerging gradually and gratefully.
Kirsten Morgan, Golden, Colorado
Journal entry, May 3, 2022
For a long time, I didn’t admit it but wondered why the life I used to navigate with ease had become not only distant but also more confusing. Was it age, my first assumption? Was it the world’s increasingly erratic behavior? For the last several months, I’ve been unable to organize my existence around activities and expectations that keep me grounded. I forget obligations, I can’t recall what my calendar says, I agree to do things and then wander away from remembering. These are surely descriptors of the aging mind, but this feels different somehow — and many people of all ages are noticing the same behaviors. It’s apparently a subliminal coping mechanism that the brain, that devious organ, has developed around our protection. When we feel overwhelmed, we just shut down, and the result is that not only the big things lose their impact but the smaller things also fall victim to erratic consciousness. It’s always been known that people under stress forget things so they can focus on the task at hand — caring for a sick relative, giving attention to a newborn, fending off an abusive spouse. Survival requires prioritization, and if we won’t do it consciously, our lizard brain shoves us aside and takes over. COVID, added to already existing anxieties, opened this bag of Aeolian winds and now they can’t be stuffed back inside. We’re ever drifting farther from home and there’s always a storm coming in.
Antoinette Kennedy, Hillsboro, Oregon
Journal entry, June 8, 2022
Teach us to care and not to care. Teach us to sit still, was my poem line (Eliot’s) for the day. The bunny, cowering in the bushes, was small enough to hold in my hand. “Poor thing. That cat toyed with it,” the young woman said, and gently stroked the rabbit. Teach me to care and curse the black cat that prowls free around our apartment complex, the cat no one claims. Teach me not to care and I walked away from my anger and brought carrot and apple bits, an old towel. The woman, Lindsay, carried the wounded creature away. Teach me to care and sorrow for the besieged in Sievierodonetsk, Buffalo, and Uvalde folded into the torn body of a tiny rabbit. An hour later Lindsay texted me to say that the bunny died. Teach us not to care, so the two of us set aside our mourning and wrapped the tiny, stiff form in flowers and a cloth. Teach us to sit still. Sun warmed our bench and in passing, wind let the leaves shimmer green.
David Massey, Decatur, Georgia
Journal entry, June 19, 2022
This pandemic has increased my isolation. I am almost completely deaf, although there are some people whose voices I hear well, and this divorces me from family and friends when there is a gathering, either at our house or elsewhere. As people converse fervently on all sides of me, I hear only a great tumult, an echo chamber of disorder and cognitive impairment. I cannot participate, can only pick up one word in twenty, so I sit silently, dumb and idiotic. I feel wretched and get weary, worn out after a half-hour of this torture, but of course, it goes on for hours, not minutes. By the time a visit is over, I am wrung out. My consolation is my books and the love of my wife, children, and grandchildren. At home I can withdraw into the world of literature, and I can participate in the contemporary world through my love of baseball and by exercising my voting rights. This is what I am reduced to by the COVID-19 pandemic and my hearing impairment: an attenuated life of incomprehensible noise and social isolation.
Julia C. Spring, New York City, New York
Journal entry, May 10, 2022
I didn’t miss museums, concerts, plays during the first pandemic year and a half. I don’t really know why not — maybe it was like Stockholm syndrome, identifying with Captor Covid and forgetting that I used to be out in the world. Or maybe I reactivated an old defense and didn’t let myself want what I couldn’t have.
But now that I’ve started doing things, my heart is hungry.
Last Saturday it was pouring and I decided to see an exhibit, someone I hadn’t heard of before, Hilary Pecis, whose works looked to be big, bright and detailed, just what I needed.
I got drenched on the way to the car then drove to the gallery — there 45 minutes (yes, big, bright and detailed) keeping my distance from the few other people — soaked again walking back to the car, drove home — changed out of my cold wet clothes and stayed inside for the rest of the gloomy day.
I felt radiant from my adventure, as though I were the sun and it was soaking into me.
Mark Tochen, Camas, Washington
Journal Entry, June 7, 2022
The Fourth of July, 2022 approaches. Let’s contemplate the Fourth of July celebration we might enjoy if Covid truly eases in our lives. We could then shout with joy, here comes the Fourth! All through the land there will be a Fourth of Joy as well as a Fourth of July. We’ll go to the park on the lake near our home for day-long picnics and play. We’ll preen and pose for pictures, kayak and paddle board and go fishing in the little lake, and take an easy two-mile walk around its rounded contours. It’s not really a swimmable lake — algae count is too high — but it’s very pretty with green trees all around, their reflections shimmering in the water. We’ll be like Bilbo and Frodo playing in the Shire, and the sun will rise high over our pleasure. Every face will be unmasked so we can delight in all the smiles of happiness and relief at our freedom. No more sheltering in place, and little kids will race around finally free to move and dance and mingle. We won’t even need fireworks, we’ll be safe and our joy will provide fireworks sufficient to gladden our hearts. It will be the Fourth.
Isabel Soto-Garcia, Madrid, Spain
Journal entry, June 7, 2022
I have a life-long passion for pre-used stuff. Pandemic restrictions have limited my rummaging for recycled treasures in second-hand stores. And yet I’ve taken a quantum leap towards conservation: I’ve installed solar panels on my roof. Or rather, several young men, sweating heavily, did.
A two-day job, the company said, and the installation would be “external” as a mobile platform charmingly called a cherry picker would lift workers and panels onto my roof.
I felt righteous.
Frustration replaced the righteousness. Five workers, strangers to my personal pandemic bubble, entered my house on day one and walked up the three floors to access the loft and my roof via a small window. Maskless. I guess “external installation” was poetic license.
I’m a cancer patient, always masked up in indoor spaces and in the company of strangers, however kind. I politely asked them to mask up.
“We have no masks,” they said.
“I’ll give you some,” I said.
Day two. Three workers today. Maskless.
“Stay in your office,” says my (masked-up) husband.
My confinement lasts twenty-seven minutes.
“I’m about to explode,” I text my husband.
“I’ll email the company,” he answers.
The company’s apology is lukewarm: anti-covid measures have been eased, guidelines are confusing . . . My husband asks the guys to don the masks I’d laid out for them the day before. They comply.
My solar panels are now in place. We draw energy from the sun.
Covid is still here.
Ageism and sexism are still here.
I am still here.