My COVID Story

Like just about everyone else, the Covid pandemic has affected my life. In some ways, I
want to say that it has given me a new perspective on life, and has bettered me in the long run,
but that is too optimistic for my taste. There are three aspects of my life that have been greatly
impacted by quarantine and the pandemic in general. From my physical health with a weakened
immune system and a health care system basically designed to make women’s lives difficult. My
mental health, from being separated from my friends, to dealing with my mother with no buffer
time. And finally, my last semester in high school and my first year in college becoming a
dumpster fire and learning nothing. In more ways than one, my life has been impacted by Covid
and maybe there are some of you who may relate to what I have to say.

Having a weakened immune system is a struggle enough without the added threat of a
pandemic so many refuse to take seriously. It was never unusual for me to have to wear a mask
during flu season; the one year I didn't, I spent two weeks recovering from a 48 hour flu. A bout
with pneumonia at age 9 had left my lungs permanently scarred and a higher risk of illness. And
with my body struggling with the common cold, coronavirus could easily kill me at its worst.
That was a risk I just couldn't take, so when most in my town were walking around unmasked
and raving about microchips in the vaccines, I was double-masked up and fighting for a higher
position on the vaccine waitlist. Nevertheless, I have experience adapting to illnesses, but what I
have come to understand is that I have yet to fully understand a health care system that does not
entirely care for its patients.

As quarantine began to let up and schools opened back up for in-person classes, checks
for potential Covid patients hit an all new rise. Every little thing was scrutinized as a possible
symptom, and if any symptom was checked off, you were sent straight into quarantine. They
wouldn't even test you to double check, just right into lock up for two weeks. These measures
were fueled by paranoia and overpowering fear that blinded doctors from listening to their
patients. So when I ended up with an ovarian cyst spiking a fever of 103, I was placed into a
quarantine suite. The doctors ignored my other symptoms, only caring for the red x that signified
my fever and how that connected to Covid and Covid alone. Even though I only spent two days
in quarantine, that was 48 hours where no one knew that I was unconscious on the bathroom
floor, my body fighting a fever with no medicine to help it. In two days I had gotten over 50
phone calls from my mother, friends, and my place of work wondering if I was okay or even
alive. All because one doctor was too wrapped up in their fear, I had to spend two of the most
terrifying days of my life completely alone.

Being quarantined alongside the rest of the world, seeing others separated from the ones
they love most, really put into perspective who actually mattered in my life. Those who I made
an effort to stay in touch with, became the most important people to me. They became what kept
me going when things turned exceptionally dark. I gladly spent hours on the phone with the:
reminiscing on fond memories, imagining what our graduation would have been like, helping
each other through losses. Attending weddings and funerals through Zoom so no one would feel
alone on either their happiest or worst days. Yet, there are times where I can't help but think
about the people who fell through the holes in my filter. Even though they no longer held an
important standing in my life, the memories I have connected to them still remain as such. But as
time goes on, their faces and voices begin to haze in my mind, and the only insight into their
lives are gained through gossip and rumors. While I was separated from others, I was locked
down with someone who never failed to bring in the dark times.

From my experiences, my mother is no different from everyone else’s. She is strict,
hardworking, strives for perfection, and accepts nothing else. And I simply do not measure up; I
do not have a natural way with renovations, I don’t pick up on social cues, I’m sensitive and
emotional, sometimes I don’t know if someone is joking or not, and I’m not the smartest, or the
most talented. I have always been my mother’s greatest disappointment and failure, so when we
were forced to spend four months under the same roof, with no time to water down our
interactions throughout the day, it quickly became volatile. My mother threw all of her time into
renovating the house and working on various projects, while I spent my time studying and
working on my first novel, both activities my mother saw as excuses to get out of what she called
real work. Our fights typically arose from her becoming frustrated at not being able to complete
a project. When she tried to make a barrel while having zero experience or understanding of how
to do so, she became frustrated at her repeated failures, and directed her anger in the form of her
blaming me for my grandfather’s death the year prior. The following month, when I was asked to
wash the dog, something I had never done by myself due to the dog’s aggressive behavior, she
jumped on me, clawing a gash from my left shoulder and across to the lower right side of my
chest. The next week, my mother spontaneously decided she wanted to take graduation photos. I
didn’t have a clean white shirt that reached my neck, so the now scarring gash was left exposed.
No one who looked at the photos noticed the mark until it was pointed, but to my mother, it was
all she could see. When we arrived back home that night, she told me something that has been
playing in my head every day since: “if you don’t get out of the depression phase, I’ll kill you
myself, since you can’t seem to do that right either.”

I’ve never been the smartest person in the room, I was “gifted” in elementary, but after
moving to Arizona my grades became a struggle, although you wouldn’t know by the straight As
in everything but math. But my last semester of high school took an unexpected turn when
everything was placed under lock down. For the first month I scrambled to meet deadlines;
analyzing Jane Eyre, teaching myself trigonometry, and attempting to understand the workings
of the US government. After a month, schools switched to the pass or fail system: students
currently passing all of their classes were done with the year, those who were failing would be
given a few weeks to correct that. I was on the passing side and graduated with my fourth
academic letter. And while that may sound great, it left me vastly unprepared for college. What I
needed to learn for college algebra, I had to teach myself. I never got feedback on my analytical
essay, so I couldn't learn from it. The college prep course wasn't transferred over to online, so I
felt out of my element when college started. On top of being underprepared, my college did not
have a legitimate plan for teaching while quarantined. Each professor had a different set: some
were fully online, some were fully in-person, and the rest were mixed. After Thanksgiving, all
classes were moved online and attendance quickly dropped. In addition, some teachers stopped
caring and began using the pass/fail system. The only thing I managed to learn was that my
psychology professor used Quizlet for all of her exams and I'm great at writing essays at the last
minute.

I hope that if there are any of you that are in a position to make change, that you listen to
my story and those of others with similar experiences. No one should fear that they will be
ignored and denied proper medical treatment. No one should have to go through their darkest
times alone. And no one should be forced to give themselves the education they need when their
schools fail them. I shared my story in hope that in the future less people will have to share them,
and for those who do, to know that they are not alone.