|One year ago|
We are fortunate to have a second home in a rural community in central Massachusetts. StarField Farm is the place we plan to retire in a few years. For now, it is a weekend escape, a place we occassionaly rent out for writing retreats among my creative community.
Now it is my home. A place to limit my exposure to the world and make sure I don't inadvertently carry the virus to anyone else. Given that even under normal circumstances, I live a fairly solitary life and that I haven't been in close contact with anyone but my own dogs for nearly 2 weeks, it is highly unlikely I have been exposed, much less infected.
My husband, on the other hand, has been working 14+ hour days during these last several weeks trying to get his department ready for what will be a terrible onslaught of the sick and the dying.
We have been in close contact by phone, text, and videochat. Day by day, I have seen him age, have watched the responsibility stoop his shoulders and dull the shine in his eyes.
This is the first weekend he's been off call since we made the decision to send me to the farm.
Last night, he arrived here for the weekend.
It was a choice we made, fully understanding the probabilities. It is possible that he has been exposed and will expose me. I accept that risk, knowing that while it exists, it is smaller than the risk to him not to have this brief respite. And given what we know and fear is coming, it may be the last time we take this risk.
He is fighting a war against an invisible enemy. Tomorrow, I will send him back to the front lines. Today, I will do what I can to put the joy back in his eyes and erase the lines from his face.
And then I will start the count again, keeping in isolation and doing what I can to stay healthy.