F-ing Covid

This is Suzy. If you’re looking for my usual light-hearted humor, you’ll have to look elsewhere.)

I’m sitting here in the hot car in the Mayo parking lot, being pissed at everybody in this country who won’t wear a mask. Everybody who thinks covid is not a big deal. Everybody who is tired. Everybody who has “covid fatigue”. 

All I want to do is sit in that radiation waiting room and be the first person that Steve sees when he walks out of treatment every day. Knowing he’s seeing my smile, even under my mask. You’re taking that away from him. And from me.  I can’t do much to help him except be there. It’s hard to feel like I’m “being there”, when all I’m doing is sitting out here in the hot car.

We can finally say we actually know people who have had covid. One of them is someone who had been almost as careful as we had been since March.  If he could get it, being careful, then we can too. Especially now that we can’t isolate, can’t stay in our bubble. We have Mayo appointments every day from now until Christmas.

Today Steve made the executive decision that I should not go into Mayo, unless I have to. Steve said he’s worried about me getting covid.  What if we both got it at the same time, he asked. How could we take care of each other?  Maybe this way, we won’t get it at the same time. Maybe this way we can take care of each other.

(Forget for the moment how ridiculous it is that Steve, the one with cancer, has to be worried about me. Forget for the moment that in fact, covid could easily be a death sentence for people with compromised immune systems. People undergoing chemo. Or with any number of underlying conditions. People like Steve. People like all the patients I’m watching walking in to Mayo right now. Every single one of them, by the way, wearing a mask even in the hot parking lot with no one else around. Every one of them knowing what fatigue really is.)

So when Steve has what are now run-of-the-mill radiation treatments, I’ll wait outside for him. When he has what are now run-of-the-mill blood tests through the run-of-the-mill port in his chest, I’ll wait outside. 

I’ll be there for the hours of chemo and doctor’s appointments.

But I won’t be the first face that he sees when he leaves radiation every day, seeing my smile even under my mask.

————————-

Update: Right now, I’m in chemo with Steve, for what will be my last time.  Not by our choice. Mayo is re-invoking their no-visitors policy next week due to the spike in covid cases.  I can’t even go into his doctor’s appointments with him.  

Wear your masks.  Keep your distance.  Stay home.  Celebrate Thanksgiving via Zoom.  Please think of someone other than yourselves.  It’s not for forever.

Is that really so hard?