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Recently, I’ve been reflecting on how fortunate I feel. In this moment, there’s a deep sense of gratitude for being alive and sharing another day with my loved ones.
When the news about COVID-19 escalated, I found myself overwhelmed with fear. The grim statistics were daunting, and I remember telling my partner that I feared I might lose friends and family to this virus. Tragically, that fear has been a reality for many. Yet, most of my closest companions have remained safe, and those who contracted the virus didn’t require hospitalization.
About a month ago, a professional acquaintance was hospitalized due to COVID-19, and his condition worsened. Although I didn’t know him well, his rapid decline affected me. It was during a mundane moment, waiting in the drive-through after taking my son to his first ice skating lesson, that I learned he had passed. My heart ached for his loved ones, especially his young grandchildren.
Later that evening, while preparing for bed, my husband asked if I could smell anything. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Suddenly, it hit me—I couldn’t smell anything at all. While I wasn’t particularly alarmed, I made plans to get tested for COVID-19 the next morning since I felt fine otherwise.
As someone who grapples with anxiety, thoughts raced through my mind about what I needed to do in case my situation worsened. I realized that while some aspects of my life were in order, others were not. The idea of possibly needing to communicate important information to loved ones made me uneasy. Memories of my mother, who had cancer and passed away when I was younger, flooded back. I never got the chance to talk to her about her fears, leaving me to ponder what it would be like to face the end of life without that support.
Fortunately, my COVID-19 test came back positive, but I experienced mild symptoms and continued to work from home while quarantining with my family.
A week later, a college friend posted about being hospitalized with COVID-19, but he seemed stable initially. As days passed, his updates became increasingly concerning. He openly expressed his fear of dying. The next morning, I learned through a family member that he had passed away.
It was sobering to realize that he and I were both in our late 40s and had been diagnosed with the same illness. He didn’t survive, while I did. To me, it felt like I had been given a second chance at life. What would I do with this precious gift of time?
A few days after my friend’s passing, I received a call from an unfamiliar number, which I ignored initially. It turned out to be a message from a colleague of my therapist, informing me of his unexpected death. The news hit me hard. I had shared so much with him through our sessions, yet I knew so little about his life outside our meetings. The bond we created during our time together felt significant, and I knew he would be missed deeply, both by me and his colleagues at the psychoanalytic institute where he taught.
These experiences intensified my anxiety about my mortality. I have a husband and a young child, and I often find myself consumed by thoughts of what would happen to them if I were gone. The worry has grown since becoming a parent, as I’m now responsible for a little life that cannot care for itself.
Perhaps the way to cope with this reality is to prepare as best as we can for the inevitable. This means ensuring that my loved ones are taken care of and having those difficult conversations about our fears regarding life and loss.
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