(Day Two of Solitary Confinement)
Slept poorly last night in my new cell. Too quiet without the rhythmic din of my bride's snoring. I tried all the usual remedies -- reading, meditation, "self-care," but nothing worked.
Everything about this is upside-down. Having to wear a mask and gloves when I venture out of the office is one strange part of it. But the oddest piece, and one I admit I failed to anticipate, is that I'm unable to touch anyone. I've developed, it seems, an almost physical dependence on the touch of my loved ones -- the feel of my wife's lips on mine, the hearty fist-bumps of my teenage sons, and even the solace of watching my dog fall comfortably asleep as I stroke her soft, stinky coat. (Yes, the instructions they gave me at the testing site included "Do not handle household pets.")
My deepest sadness comes from realizing, early on, that the vast majority of those 600,000 people who have died of this disease have done so without the comforting hands of loved ones holding theirs. When it's time for me to go -- and I'm confident it won't be for a long time -- this is all I ask. I don't need to b e surrounded by six Vestal Virgins, waiting to show me the way to paradise. I don't even need a holy person, reading last rites. All I'll want when my day comes is the feel of a familiar hand, the sound of a familiar voice telling me it's okay for me to move on to my next adventure.
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| Sometimes you have to let the dark thoughts come |
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