Safe in the Bubble

Or … “safe enough” in the bubble?

At the onset of Coronavirus, our family chose to take data and warnings and recommendations pretty darn seriously. We believed the CDC, we didn’t doubt firsthand experiences.

I mean, we don’t wash our groceries or leave our mail in de-germing in the garage for a week, but we also try not to take any extra risks. Living in a more rural area, we do have to venture out for grocery runs, but we always mask – always wash up – always socially distance.

The few times we’ve found ourselves in riskier situations than we have intended, we’ve re-accessed, and re-adjusted.

I am at home with our kids, so they can do school at home, virtually, with teachers in their district. When I read about what some peers are dealing with in their school districts, I am reminded how ridiculously blessed we are to have a good program.

We are “the bad guys” and tell our kids “no” to in-person get togethers. We know they need it, want it, crave it.. but it’s also not safe. Hospital beds are scarce. Daily death numbers are ridiculously high. We didn’t do Thanksgiving with grandma and grandpa and the cousins and extended family. We recently decided they won’t go back to in-person learning next term, which upset them. “Next semester” was a glimmer of hope we’d held on to- hoping it would look radically different than our current reality.

There’s a sense of safety – of security – in our little bubble.

There’s a comfort of living in a more rural area and recognizing a privilege in being more spread out, more remote.

But even as I read headlines and stats and personal experiences of people with Covid19, the comfort if my bubble allows me to become more numb than I am comfortable with being.

I’m not saying I want to wallow in anxious agitation. I don’t want to fixate and fear and go off the deep end.

But these stats… these numbers… (these sky rocketing positive tests and daily death numbers) are REAL PEOPLE:

Real people with real families, real co-workers, real neighbors, with real passions, real histories, real responsibilities, real hopes and dreams.

A few months ago, we might have known someone who had a Covid sick uncle or brother or college pal.

There was comfort, though, in the distance.

Now, I venture to say that most of us know someone battling it, or slowly recovering from it, or (God rest them) dead from it.

I do.

There’s still a sense of safety/comfort/numbness in our little bubbles. We generally trust our neighbors to make *good enough* choices.

But I also read articles that remind me some people do close to “everything right” and still end up horribly sick, or worse, dead.

And I’m reminded that even if I can *mostly* protect myself and my kids, I can’t stop other loved ones from encountering and contracting this horrible disease.

And I still recognize that there are areas where there is risk in my life.

My bubble feels safer than the world at large, but I am NOT in control.

Unless we’re on the front lines, few of us think we’ll be the ones to end up getting sick with Covid19. Call it naivete, call it optimistic, call it delusional.

But these daily numbers are real people, with real stories, whose real lives have been flipped on their heads.

I want your story… and mine… to go on for a long time to come. Selfishly, I want chapter upon chapter, volume upon volume.

Please do what you can to stay safer and slow the spread.