New York is aglow in
holiday glory.
Within walking distance of my home are houses and apartment buildings adorned in
beautiful lights and holiday displays. Midtown Manhattan is deluged with the
stunning accoutrements of the holiday season, and parts of the outer boroughs
and the suburbs have homes that take yuletide cheer to new heights.
And New York and the world are in the throes of another
pandemic surge. Despite being vaccinated and still generally cautious, I’m
quarantined in the bedroom of my apartment as Christmas approaches, testing
positive for COVID-19 for the second time this year. The whole family had it in
February, luckily the rest have tested negative. I’m sequestered in my bedroom
and my 10-day Coronavirus quarantine ends two days before Christmas.
This is the second holiday season in a row, at least here in
the Northeast, that has been disrupted by this global pandemic, and I share in
the fatigue of constant waves of variants, surges, and arguments over masks and
vaccines. The COVID pandemic has become a pathetic Greek alphabet soup with
everyone going through the motions until the
next
surge or the
next
new variant.
For most of the country, COVID doesn’t impact daily life
until it does. A few months ago, hospitals in Georgia were so
flooded
with unvaccinated COVID patients that one of my stepbrothers had a
tough time getting non-COVID-related hospital care he needed. The Delta variant
surge failed to convince the population that won’t get vaccinated to get
vaccinated.
Much
of the U.S.A. is already mentally past the pandemic, and rightly
or wrongly, looks at our continued precautious and inoculations as a form of
cultural snobbery.
Getting COVID a second time is frustrated, as I’m doing
things by the (often changing and hastily re-written) book. I am fully
vaccinated and have been going to places in the city that require full
vaccination. I had a few cold symptoms and some general weariness, nothing I
thought could not be knocked out with more rest and vitamin C. Then a coworker
I had seen recently informed me he tested positive for COVID, so I took a home
test that came back positive. The rest of the family got COVID tests at a
clinic and tested negative.
I went online and scheduled a COVID test at a local clinic.
Arriving early to check in for my 1 p.m. appointment, I
waited behind a woman boasting of her position as a pharmacist and carrying on
an extra-long and unnecessary conversation with the desk attendant at the
clinic; she kept asking the same questions and laughing and looking at the
growing line behind her for some kind of validation and camaraderie. “I fill
Z-Pack prescriptions all the time…”
The desk clerk was very patient and kept telling her they
couldn’t register any more walk-in patients; there were people who had been
waiting there since 10 a.m.
Once the verbose pharmacist moved on, I gave my name and my
insurance card and ID, and signed my scribble on an electronic pad without
seeing any version of what I was signing—the clerk told me what it was and to
be honest, I rarely read these documents anyway—and I was told I would be called
when my time comes.
I waited in my car for 45 minutes before I had to go back
inside to use the restroom. While I was waiting for the restroom, more people
showed up, looking for COVID tests. One man said he had driven in from Long
Island, that this was the fourth clinic he had visited today, and that one
clinic had told him to arrive at 4 a.m. He was going to travel soon for the
holidays and needed travel clearance.
My call finally came, and I got my test in the forms of
swabs up the nose; not as intrusive as the one I had in February, we’ll count
that as progress. The doctor came in a few minutes later with my results. He
was thorough but harried; he had seen about 50 patients before I got there and
would see at least that many more before he left for the day. He confirmed my
home test and gave the information I needed. I was soon on my way home, walking
through a small crowd of people who had arrived at 3 p.m. to try to put their
names on the new walk-in waiting list.
This isn’t the holiday season we wanted; we were supposed to
be through this by now. When the initial outbreak happened in early 2020, we
thought the upcoming spring and summer would spell an end to the lockdowns.
After all,
this
wasn’t 1918, we have advanced technologically very much since then. But
human nature does not change, and a deadly combination of partisan theatrics,
bureaucratic ineptitude, and general boorish ignorance have kept this going.
I’m not sure what relief 2022 will bring. I have lost count
of the number of times that I thought we were
on
our way to being done with the Coronavirus pandemic. I’ll remember to
be thankful for the good health that I have—my symptoms are mild, and I will be
through it before Christmas.
I’ll look ahead to the New Year with hope and the resolve to
keep living life, no matter what the world puts in the way. See you there.
Happy holidays.
