The Year that Wasn't

I have not looked at, or even thought about, this blog for quite sometime. On March 13th, 2020, I was preparing to go home from work for what we all assumed would be a two week break while we worked out how we could keep a college campus open and still manage to stay healthy in the face of Covid-19. We were closed to the public that afternoon as we scrambled to clear out our offices so they could be deep cleaned and sanitized. My assistant and I went through the building, wiping down doors and surfaces. We talked about what we would do to stay safe when we returned. We shared our worries - I am younger than she is, but her health is better than mine. Still, we both fall into a high-risk category for severe or deadly infection from the novel coronavirus. We filled out forms to enable us to work from home for the next two weeks, and I put together a list of tasks for us to complete during our time out of the office. 

Two weeks turned into five months - 2020 became the year that wasn't. 

It passed like a blur, marked by phone calls with students I advised for the fall semester. I remember one student, who was three months pregnant, crying to me on the phone because a class she needed was only available in person, and she was immunocompromised from cancer treatments she'd had as a child. Fortunately, I was able to get her permitted into an online version of that class, so she was able to stay home and stay safe. Hers was not the only story of fear. Instructors, staff, and students all shared the same worry - "How will we stay safe when we have to go back on campus?"

That worry is particularly strong for people like me, who have suppressed or compromised immune systems. We know that we are more likely to catch Covid-19 than others who are relatively healthy, and we know that we are more likely to end up on a ventilator, or even dead. Like most people, I spent a good deal of 2020 contemplating my own mortality. When I learned that we would be required to return to campus, I drew up a will. My college has done a lot to be sure that we are safe for in person learning, and for the majority of our constituents, that will be enough to keep them healthy. But I, and people like me, are uniquely vulnerable.

It takes much less exposure to the virus to make someone like me sick. Viral load determines your level of illness with Covid, according to experts (Columbia University, 2020). However, in a person whose immune system doesn't work properly, it doesn't take long for the viral load to become overwhelming. The higher the load, the more likely the sufferer is to need intervention including ventilation. And the more likely a patient is to need ventilation, the more likely it is that the patient will not survive. 

The arrival of the vaccine seems like a light at the end of the tunnel. Because I'm at high risk, I am in an early phase of vaccine delivery, and I received my first injection of the Moderna formula on March 3rd. I'm scheduled for the second dose on April 6. My shoulder was sore for a day or two, which is normal for everyone receiving the shot. Unfortunately, people with autoimmune issues react differently to anything at activates the immune system. RA patients take medications formulated to suppress our immune system. A vaccine has the property of overriding this; that's what they're supposed to do. But in my case, when my immune system is activated, it spends its time attacking my joints and organs instead of the invader. So for about three days after the vaccine, I was in a lot of pain all over my body. I'm still having trouble with my left knee and elbow, though everything else seems to have settled down. I'm both looking forward to and dreading receiving my second dose.

It's funny, the things I used to take for granted - going out to the grocery store, going to a local coffee house or pub for live music, dining out at a restaurant. I think we all took them for granted, really, but even with my second vaccine on the horizon, I know it will be a long time before I feel comfortable being around people. I will continue to wear my mask, to socially distance, to compulsively scrub and sanitize my hands and the shared surfaces that I touch. There is no way to be sure the vaccine worked, of course, and we don't know how well it will work against new variants. We're all adrift in the same ocean where that is concerned.

I started to write that we're all in the same boat, but that isn't true, is it? Some are in yachts and can sail in comfort - I've read about wealthy people complaining that they were tired of staying home and swimming in their private pool or only using their home theater this past summer. Some are in battleships and are actively fighting the disease, putting themselves at risk for the good of everyone, often without new PPE or the tools they need. Some are drifting along on sailboats, or motorboats, and some are in dinghies, constantly bailing water to stay afloat. I feel as though I'm adrift on a raft, built of rotten wood. I have to be careful where I go on the raft, and a wave of any size will capsize me. The ocean is too deep for poling, and my steering oar broke about a year ago...I can see my family and friends, but I can't get to them and they can't come to me. Not yet. And who knows when that will change?

Reference:

Viral load as a predictor for patient outcomes. Columbia University (2020, December). (https://www.cuimc.columbia.edu/news/viral-load-predictor-covid-19-patient-outcomes#:~:text=They%20saw%20that%20the%20amount,to%20be%20hospitalized%20or%20die.)