How Quickly Everything Changed

By Tammy Pilisuk, Richmond, California, U.S.

Right after our “trial” work-at-home day became permanent on Tuesday, March 17, my dentist office had left me a day-before reminder, on Monday, to come in for my appointment. I decided to call before just driving over there. Their message machine said the office had closed—apparently without alerting me that my appointment was cancelled. That’s how suddenly everything changed.

The world tilted. One day I was telling my husband, “Don’t worry if other people on BART are wearing masks, just wash your hands.” Shortly after, the County orders came out to cover your face when going outside. I went into the garage to get my ten-year-old N-95 masks left over from the last emergency response plan. They obviously weren’t going to last for long. We moved to bandanas and then to cloth masks that our dry cleaner was selling.

It felt like a grand adventure having Zoom cocktail hours with friends, organizing a Zoom Passover seder with our extended family, and starting remote Zoom-ba and yoga classes. I did a literal happy dance when my tap class went remote! That's mainly because I was worried sick about my teacher losing his livelihood and the survival of the non-profit dance studio.

The hardest thing has been not visiting dad. He’s 86 and a cancer survivor. Since mom died last year, he lives in the large, now poorly maintained house I grew up in. Thankfully, a caregiver now lives with him, and another comes on week days to help him. When the non-resident caregiver fell ill, I filled in briefly. I wondered if she had COVID, and how long would she be off-duty. Would my dad get it? Would I get it? Maybe give it to my husband?

Dad called the other night. He wanted to express that if he catches COVID-19 he doesn’t want to face the last part of his life hooked up to a ventilator. I tried to gently explain that that’s why we were going through all the extraordinary safeguards to keep him safe. I wished I could hug him through the phone.

When dad’s elderly cat got sick, I came to take her to the pet hospital. Along with dad’s roommate, both of us in home-made masks, I spent hours in the car in the veterinary hospital’s parking lot waiting, then talking through my bandana to the vet about Ruby’s fate. If Ruby had been human, we might not have been able to sit with her during her final moments. I cried, but I couldn’t use my bandana mask to wipe away my tears.

I feel blessed, I feel bored, I feel guilty, I feel grateful.

Blessed to still have my health, my husband to shelter with, and my job in public health that keeps me busy—much busier, I imagine, once we have a vaccine and I am called to use my health education skills.

Bored because I miss friends and activities that don’t seem the quite the same in the virtual realm.

Guilty because I know I am one of the more fortunate who has not yet been personally impacted in terms of health or pocketbook. Still, I have helped my elderly neighbor with her shopping, given to the food bank and to local businesses and the arts. Yet the enormity of the needs feel overwhelming.

Grateful for what I have and my ability to help others in small ways, for the community I feel in my neighborhood that has become my realm as I wait out the shelter-at-home orders to dip back into what’s out there—and yet to come.