I am Overwhelmed by Pandemic Fatigue
Like most of the world, I’m home. Sitting at my kitchen table while my son watches TV in the next room and my husband works from the basement, we’re making the best of our new normal. It’s been just over four weeks since COVID-19 surged into our community like water flowing over a dam. In those 30-odd days we’ve gone from “let’s wait and see” about our upcoming travel plans to living in a shuttered city — no bars, restaurants, movie theaters, performing arts venues, sports, playgrounds, or other non-essential locales open to the public. It all happened so fast, and yet those “wait and see” days feel so long ago.
When it was announced that my son’s school would be closed — first for a week, then two, now…who knows — I expected it to be hard. I knew this new reality would be a massive adjustment for my family, and I figured there would be stress, tears, and the occasional argument. What I didn’t anticipate was the overwhelming, all-consuming fatigue that would envelope me like a shroud. Over the past three weeks, I’ve found myself exhausted by mid-morning. At first, I assumed it was simply the usual mid-day slump, something a bit of caffeine could fix.
But this fatigue is deeper. It hasn’t gone away.
In fact, it’s gotten worse by the day.
This afternoon, sometime between sobbing uncontrollably in the kitchen over something that shouldn’t have upset me and curling up on the sofa after my son’s (home)school day ended, I realized where the exhaustion was coming from. It’s the unrelenting feeling that nothing I do can divert the wave that is about to crash over us, leaving devastation in its wake.
I’m not talking about death and destruction on a macro scale. What I’m referring to are the small ways this virus prods at each of us on a daily basis, making life difficult enough that fighting it day after day can make one so very tired.
The Novel Coronavirus is always reminding me of its presence. It’s there every time my 7-year-old’s eyes well with tears when he realizes it will be weeks, possibly months, before he can see his friends again. It’s there when I lose my temper because no, I don’t have time to play, and no, I don’t know how to teach this subject, and no, I can’t effectively juggle work and homeschooling. It’s there when a delivery arrives, reminding me that every package, letter, magazine, or flyer could be infected with a deadly virus. It’s there in the empty shelves at the grocery store, in the aisles devoid of missing toilet paper, disinfectant wipes, and rubber gloves. It’s there when my best friend, an OR nurse, texts to say she’s been moved to the front lines. It’s there when I learn another friend has been laid off. It’s there on the TV, in commercials and news broadcasts. It’s there in my email, with updates from local businesses that want to share what they’re doing to help flatten the curve.
I feigned ignorance for a while. I attempted to avoid social media, but it’s difficult to stay offline when Facebook and Twitter are the only ways to remain connected to the outside world. I tried to look on the bright side of things — society needed to slow down, I told myself. It’s important that we have this time together as a family, to reflect on what’s important.
And it’s true: We did need to slow down. We do need to reevaluate our priorities. But it’s hard to hold onto those moments of enlightenment when it feels as if you could drown at any moment.
I know all that we’re doing right now is critical. I’m committed to sheltering in place for as long as it takes — and it will take a long while, despite what the president says. We’re all in this together. It’s an invisible war we need to fight. We’re doing it for the collective good. Deep down, I know this, and I remind myself of it every day. But even soothing mantras and acts of goodwill haven’t stopped pandemic fatigue from settling in and taking up space.
Last weekend, my husband and I had plans to go on an anniversary trip. My mother was going to babysit so we could take the train to New York City for a night away. We had tickets to a show and a room at a nice hotel. We looked forward to spending some time together, just as my son was excited to have a whole night with his Nana.
Instead, Nana stayed in Boston and we hunkered down in Albany, doing our part to keep the wave from becoming a tsunami. In the coming weeks, possibly months, I’ll continue to home-school my son. My husband will continue to work from the basement. I’ll continue to wipe down the mail and wash my hands every few minutes. I’ll cry when I need to and will do my best to avoid news of the daily death tolls.
And I’ll squeeze in a nap whenever I can, because this fight is exhausting. And it’s just getting started.
A version of this post also appears on Medium