March 7 – 88 – 12 (Part 1)

The last three months have been filled with many mistakes; the last one is one which I pray that I can take back.

Games Day on March 7 in the Heights was not one of those mistakes. It started and went off like most Games Days-getting up early, cleaning the apartment, anticipating all my friends coming out and geeking out on some geeky games, and some early morning booze.

But something different was in the air. Maybe not in the apartment, that day, but some terror lurked offshore and in parts of the country.

The coronavirus.

Yes, we have had many coronaviruses (plural), most which we experience as a common cold.

But this one was different.

And I think that was the subtext of that Games Day so long ago.

We talked about it a tiny bit, and looked up and remembered the plural of virus.

But, more indicative of the change in living that was to come was the fact that we played and played and played until about 12:30am. Deal or Duel. A mediocre game with some great flavor text. TK, Rob, and me.

When we finally said our goodbyes, we went to “elbow” pump each other; but then decided to hug each instead, because we knew it would be the last time we’d be in each other’s presence for a long time.

Until the next day or so, it’s the last human physical contact I had with friends or loved ones since then.

88

I started working from home on March 9. I did go out to the local Burger King the next day, armed with hand sanitizer.

But I needed my two Whoppers, fries, and Coke Zero!

I haven’t been in a crowd of people since then.

I remember telling my immediate boss that working from home would be fun.

And so it was.

I eliminated about three hours of commute time, and I got into a routine-I’d watch de Blasio, Cuomo, and even Trump; waiting for what Dr. Fauci would say. And I’d get updates on the virus from Dr. John Campbell, a Professor in Nurse Practice in the UK. And virtual Mass and call-in Rosary.

I was set.

But I was scared; looking back on it, I was probably more terrified than scared.

But I did feel the palpable presence of everyone who had lived with me in the apartment.

I would tough it out.

I have always had OCD, so I became the super-heavy purveyor and doer of OCD. I decided I wouldn’t leave my apartment for the duration, be it six weeks or fiver years. I only took the garbage out once every week or so. I kept all my recyclables in my kitchen, terrified to even use the elevator for two or three minutes because of the smallness of the space and the possibility there might be extra virus; lurking. I did not open the windows for a few weeks because of the theoretical possibility…

By OCD I mean this: the few times I left my apartment, to throw out the garbage through the compactor chute, to pick up mail (I held the mail for 45 days for fear of going downstairs), to pick up the food delivery, even to finally take a walk around the block in May, I would put on my mask and gloves, and, as soon as I got back, I would strip down at the front door, and race to take a shower. Any items I had brought upstairs I would be sure not to touch for three days. The same ritual. Every time.

I feared even any slight slip-up: 55 years old, technically obese, and asthmatic, my profound terror was that I would die, alone, in my apartment. Why this fear? A number of people in my neighborhood suffered that fate,