While I'm Still Here.

These days, I sit in the window of my loft in late morning, to get ten minutes of sun, sometimes twenty, while I read a book. It’s the only exposure to natural light to which I have access. I can’t go to the rooftop, where I could give my whole body a sunbath; there is no mandate for social distancing and masking up there. Even if there were, it wouldn’t be carefully followed, and I can't take the risk.

There are too many people living in my building who behave as if this isn’t the end of the world.

With all that I’ve experienced and endured in my years, I refuse to give my life over to this virus. So, I wait until the wee hours to take out my trash, or ride the elevator five floors to get my mail, just to avoid exposure. Sometimes, I get away with it; I have only the security guard behind the Plexiglas shield to acknowledge. Sometimes, there are unmasked people in the lobby chatting away, laughing, shouting, giving no mind to the unfettered droplets spitting from their mouths. As if there were no others in their vicinity who might be at risk of infection by their personal aerosol.

As if they were the only people in the building, the city, the world.

I only show my back to the sun, which seems to be getting hotter. My shoulders are covered by a thin t-shirt, and they start to burn. I lean forward, giving my shoulders a break from the heat that sears through the cotton, and wonder if it’s the angle of the sun, or the filter of particles from the faraway fires, or just the inevitable change in climate that will be ending life as we know it sooner than we’d hoped.

Life as I’ve known it has already ended for me.

There are those who will read that thought and chastise me for my pessimism, who will hasten to share a word of hope to lift me out of that bleak perspective. Friends in real life who love me and don’t want me to give up, or friends who only know me in the virtual world, posting comments filled with encouragement. No one wants to accept the facts I’m facing head-on. But we are always uncomfortable with change; we are ever in denial about death, even if we deny the denial.

Don't worry; I'm fine. I'm just telling the truth.

I say I won’t risk my life, but it’s been put at risk for me. Even I, who can so clearly see the shortness of my life, am not willing to endanger what’s left. We don’t understand how brief life is when we’re in our teens and twenties and thirties. But I quit smoking cigarettes at 29, and quit drinking alcohol and smoking marijuana when I was 39, so I must have understood. I clearly wanted to live as long as I possibly could.

I still do.

Friends generously offer to pick me up and take me to the ocean or to the mountains or to the park. It would be good for me to breathe the air, to walk in the sand, to sit in the grass under a tree. I decline, reminding them that I am on the list of people with risk factors. And I cry, because I want to go to the beach so badly. I cry because I am touched by their kindness, and because I envy them their seemingly fearless ability to move about the world. I cry because I can't bring myself to trust people Out There. I cry because hundreds of thousands of people in this country who went Out There are dying of this virus, and I don't want to be one of them. I don't want my friends to be among them.

Under these circumstances, can one be too cavalier? Can one be too careful?

The sun doesn’t beam into my loft for very long, and I go about my business. There is coffee to be drunk, there are communications to be exchanged, words to be composed and edited, music to be celebrated. There is stuff to keep and discard, food to be ordered and cooked. There are bills to be paid, programs to be watched. I sit too much behind the computer, so I walk the length of the loft, twenty strides back and forth, while I’m on the phone. I play music and dance around the room. I remind my body that it knows yoga, and I ask it to stretch. All within 1100 square feet of space. Every day and night and day and night and...

I used to count the days, thinking there’d come a day when I could stop counting. That day hasn’t come, but I’ve stopped counting, anyway. Now, it’s months. Exactly seven today.

I prefer to count my blessings. I am a freelance writer, and I work at home. I am an only child who was a latchkey kid. I have lived in my head for as long as I can remember, so being alone is easier for me than it is for others. I have a meditation practice. I have faith in a higher power. I am a realistic optimist, even if the limits of my optimism are being tested. And I have loving friends, who want only the best for me.

If you asked me what I miss, a hundred things come to mind. But the two things I miss most are the simple acts of hugging a friend and taking a deep breath of fresh air.

While I'm still here, I'll sit in my window and take the sun. I'll sleep until I wake up. I'll hold love in my heart, to hold fears at bay. I'll pray for the fires to subside, for no sizeable earthquakes, for the virus to get bored with us. I'll vote my conscience, and encourage others to do the same.

While I’m still here, I’ll write about the way it was, and support others in creating their own stories. I'll talk to myself and sing aloud, and not care about being heard.

While I'm still here, I’ll cherish all the hugs and breaths I’ve given and taken. I’ll choose to believe it will someday be safe enough to again do all the things I took for granted. Someday, I'll feel safe enough to be Out There.

Someday. Just not today.