That was the first time I saw Justin in five days. We waved to each other. We couldn’t touch. Couldn’t hug. Couldn’t kiss goodbye. We had no idea how contagious he was or wasn’t. I told myself to remember this moment in preparation that it might be the last. This devastatingly distant goodbye.

 My body was flooded with anxiety and fear. My heart was racing. Feeling like I was in the front row of one of those roller coasters where your feet hang out from the seat, quickly approaching the top of the climb just waiting for the drop. Your mind knows what’s coming but still you’re body is unprepared for the shock. I couldn’t believe this was happening. How did this happen? That cliche moment when it hits home and your shocked but also not surprised. We had spent the last two months being paralyzed by fear. Terrified of Covid-19 from stories from a family friend in Italy, we even pulled Maya from school days before the official lockdown ended life as we knew it. We had that feeling of impending doom. We were taking it seriously. Maybe too seriously but clearly not seriously enough. Justin had only been out of the house to buy our groceries and always with a mask and always keeping distance. It didn’t matter. We were one of the stories now.

 The front door closed sounding louder than ever. Closed with force. So final. I grabbed one of the pillows from the edge of the bed where I had made the usual pillow barrier to keep Max from rolling off the side. I sat on the floor leaned against the foot of the bed and for a minute was distracted by the pile of clothes on the floor next to me. Were they clean or dirty? A habitual question in our house. Is this a clean pile of clothes that was dumped onto the bed, awaiting folding and a home in its proper place? Or was this a dirty pile awaiting the contractor bag that we use as a laundry hamper, a system I despised but only secretly since Justin did all of the laundry. They must have fallen off the bed. Half were folded, the rest lay stretched across each other mid-fold. Their presence filled me with rage. A reminder of the endless bickering over housework. A reminder of the unrelenting cycle of four people’s dirty clothes. An abrupt reminder that Justin may never be back in this room folding our laundry again. Without restraint I kicked them over and burst into tears. I sat on the floor against the bed in the pitch dark, sobbing into the pillow so I didn’t wake the kids. I sobbed until I got to that point where I was too exhausted and couldn’t make tears anymore. It may have been twenty minutes or two hours. It was the kind of crying that didn’t accomplish anything. It didn’t change anything. My husband was in the hospital, alone. I didn’t know if we would ever see him again. I started to think about what I would tell the kids in the morning and the sobbing returned.

 I spent the rest of the night mostly awake in the bed. That twilight sleep where you are aware that you’re awake. Half of my time awake was spent on my phone doom scrolling through articles about covid-19. The other half rearranging the kid's positions in the bed. How do toddlers manage to turn themselves completely upside-down while sleeping? It is truly shocking the way a tiny, sleeping five year old body can dominate a King size bed. I fell asleep for a few minutes here and there, every time with my phone in my hand. Jolted awake by the buzz of the vibration in my hand under my pillow. Was this the nurse telling me my husband had died? Was it a doctor asking me my symptoms? Was my throat sore? It was. It wasn’t. Was it? I felt warm. I took my temperature over and over waiting for the moment the digital thermometer flashed red. I couldn’t keep my thoughts from wandering to what I felt was the inevitable question, what are we going to do when I get sick?

 Justin was keeping me updated as best he could which gave me some comfort knowing that he was alert enough to be on his phone. The time between his texts was agonizingly slow.

 Scan. Test. Waiting. Scan. Test. Waiting. Scan. Test. Waiting.

 Pneumonia. Double pneumonia. Oxygen. Elevated everything. Blood clot. Isolation. Covid-19.

 Days passed and the door of Maya’s room was still closed. I was scared to go in. Was it safe yet? Was the room filled with the virus? Had it shed onto the surface of everything? Seemed both ridiculous yet highly plausible. I thought I should try to go in and open the window to air it out. A little fresh air would surely kill-off any remaining pandemic germs, right? Passing the closed door day after day was solemn reminder that the virus had entered our home. It also literally made the house darker by being closed which added to my fears. An invisible intruder into what once was our warm, loving and safe home. It no longer really felt that way. Maya was begging to get back into her room. Asking again and again (and again as a five year olds does) to go in “for just one thing Mom, I promise”. After a few days of talking myself out of it, I worked up the courage to go into the room. It was time. Maya deserved to have a few of her things again. I got myself ready. I decided it felt safer to wear two pairs of disposable gloves because why not? I put on the N95 mask I managed to dig-up over at my studio and my giant fleece robe. A red plaid robe that was so huge on me but was so cozy I could never get myself to get rid of it. It was big like a blanket more than a robe even. I figured I could wrap the robe around my clothes for added protection and also quickly take it off once I was out of the room.

Deep breath. Hold it in so not to breathe in any of the virus. Pysching myself up “Ok! Run in. Grab a few things. Open the window. Don’t breathe. Don’t get sick.” The room was so dark and still and smelled like old sweat. It smelled sick. After I got the window open I scoured the floor for to find any of the stuffies that Maya had asked for - Ducky, the three little kitties and the “other” kitty. As a mom I didn’t need more info I knew what the “other” kitty was. I opened her bureau and frantically searched for an armful of her favorite clothes - her rainbow skirt (“the one with the surprise shorts underneath”), her black bathing suit with one strap and the white ruffle so she could pretend to be a kitty and her washed-out once navy blue tank top with the watermelon that read SWEET.  Maya insisted on wearing that shirt basically every day despite whether or not the temperature called for a tank top. We’ve done special loads of laundry just so she could have it clean to wear the next day. I’ve tried to get rid of that shirt at least three times but Maya always salvages it from the give away bag with the most irked exclamation - “HEYYYY!” It felt worth the risk of going into the perhaps still contagious room to grab her that damn shirt. It brought her so much joy and we all needed a little of that right about now.

 My parents, who live in the middle of our block, would check on us daily. Maya, Max and I would go to the screen door, with the glass part pulled up to shield our breaths, and wave hello to them. They wanted to come inside to help me but I resisted not knowing if the three of us were asymptomatic or would be symptomatic in another day? A few hours? Or were we now?

 I needed help. Desperately. I needed my mom. I needed my mommy. She could feel, even through the glass barrier of our door visits, that I needed some mom-ing. She wanted to help me. She offered to do our laundry, trying to mother from a distance in any way she could. Usually the taurus in me would have objected with a fervent “I’m fine”. The fact that I didn’t shocked us both. We created a contactless system so she could take our dirty laundry. My mom would put an empty laundry basket on the bench outside of our house and would text me when it was there. I would crack open the screen door and toss the dirty clothes into the basket. Once the clothes were in she would sneak up with gloves and a mask and grab the basket and hours later would return it with clean clothes. Clean and folded. I felt nostalgic for the days when washing and folding clothes all in the same day felt tangible. There really wasn’t much laundry for her to do even but that wasn’t the point. It was more of a symbolic gesture on both our parts.  The passing of the clothes was a way for us to gently touch one another in some small way. She held pieces of us in that basket. A way to reconnect as mother and daughter, she commented several times about forgetting how sweet and small a one-year-olds socks are. The physical act of my mom washing our dirty clothes felt more symbolic of our relationship - accepting the mess and cleansing the slate, easing my burdens in any way she could. Helping me keep it altogether. One clean little sock at a time.

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