Grief, everywhere.

I'm not doing well.

Mother's Day has been a tough day for me ever since 2017, when I walked out of the hospital empty handed after delivering my dead little boy. Staring down this hallmark holiday while preparing arrangements to bury your child is something that sticks with you.

But this year I am a tense and tangled ball of grief and anger and frustration. Covid-19 (which, by the way, is a really dumb name for a disease, can we please just call it covid?) is killing nearly 2,000 Americans a day. We're identifying somewhere between 25,000 and 30,000 new cases per day. We don't have anything remotely resembling control of the spread of this disease. We don't have anything remotely resembling a strategy to keep people safe. Two months ago we all went into our homes (or at least, many people did) feeling like trepidatious but happy warriors, engaging in a shared sacrifice to keep our fellow human beings safe and healthy. We've emerged as minimally as possible, for "socially distant walks" or just to acquire essentials. The understanding was this would slow the spread, give our healthcare system a beat to ramp up healthcare capacity, and give more time for an adequate testing and contact tracing strategy to be implemented.

And some of that happened-- we did flatten the curve. Outside of the New York area, hospitals haven't seen an overwhelming capacity of covid cases. Inside the New York area, they've finally managed to bring cases down under control, so hospital systems can keep up. PPE supply chains are being sorted out and augmented. It's one small measure of comfort that the hospital system can take care of us.

But outside the tri-state area, cases are mostly climbing. Even among new pushes to get back to business, there is acknowledgement that cases will accelerate faster. Testing and tracing has not scaled up to an adequate level. People are still being denied testing when they need it or want it. Positive covid cases aren't being quickly isolated, and neither are their contacts. A long and steady plateau of cases is now somehow considered a success. A good day is when fewer than 1500 people nationwide succumb to the same lonely illness, drowning in their own phlegm while PPE-clad nurses hold their hands, if they have the time, just so these patients don't have to die completely alone. Small funerals are held with just the immediate family members who don't need to travel to attend. Wear masks. Don't hug. Funerals are not for the dead-- they are for the living who must mourn, and this is a terrible way to have to mourn.

I'm really scared. At first I was just afraid for my parents, and my in-laws, and all the people I love who are above age 60 and therefore considered at greater risk for the worst outcomes of covid. But now I'm also afraid for myself-- the statistical risk to someone my age and with my health status is quite low. But it's not zero, and the more we learn about this disease the less comfortable I am with contracting it. I'm not ready to die and leave my daughters motherless. I'm not okay with surviving but having reduced lung function for who knows how long. I'm frightened for my children, who are similarly not immune from the worst effects of this disease. Three children in New York City this week have died from a mysterious inflammatory response that has now been linked to covid. These deaths hit me hard-- that's three more mothers in the world who, just like me, have lost their babies just before Mother's Day. Sure, the statistics are in our favor. But I've been a very terrible statistic before, so I know there's no comfort in them.

I'm so angry. A mindset of "stay home and stay safe" has apparently shifted dramatically over to "many people will die and that's an acceptable cost of doing business." I'm not dumb and I know there are no right or easy answers here. People are worried for their livelihoods and isolation has a substantial mental cost. I know that staying home is the safest thing for me and for my family, and we will do so for as long as humanly possible. But I also know that it doesn't have to be this way. My grief for my son has guided my personal response to this pandemic, and these days when things look as bleak as can be with no end in sight, my grief for him compounds my heaviness for the world I'm living in. My heart is grieving today for everyone who doesn't have the choice to stay home despite the fear and uncertainty of this relentless disease. I'm aching for those who are making hard decisions about whether to keep themselves safe or to keep themselves fed. I'm aching for those who are hoping and trusting that those they must come into contact with are healthy and won't endanger them. I'm especially aching for all of those we are losing and all of those who are grieving them, alone.