I stood outside the grocery store, fourth in a line of hopeful shoppers armed with newly disinfected shopping carts, holding tightly to paper lists and concealed behind an array of colorful homemade masks. Some wore goggles; almost all wore glasses. Mine fogged slightly as warm breath escaped through the gaps on either side of my nose. We had respectfully distanced ourselves from the person just ahead in line and stood silently, waiting to be admitted.
I had arisen on that morning several weeks ago far earlier than my typical self-isolation schedule, and with the nervous expectation that would normally accompany a morning departure for a long trip. I had made lists for myself and my husband, organized by the order of the aisles in the store, assigning to each of us items of interest or passion: peanut butter and Dalfour jams for Joe; humus and Mary’s Gone Crackers for me. An inventory conducted the night before made sure that only those necessities that threatened to run out would be included. The goal was to not have to visit another grocery store for a minimum of two weeks.
The level of planning and organization were extreme and not characteristic. (Just ask any of the courageous women who have had the dubious pleasure of serving as my secretary.) But this was war. The enemy was the new coronavirus, and securing reinforcements for the siege meant life itself.
At the stroke of 8, the doors opened and we filed in. The line quickly melted away as we dispersed, each heading with determination in the direction that our lists had targeted. I scanned the shelves of my assigned aisles, peeking over the fabric of my mask. The sense of the surreal followed me as each shelf had familiar items in spots, bare stretches in others and unfamiliar choices replacing some usual brands. We wheeled our carts silently, avoiding eye contact but for the briefest moments. Those moments were precious; detecting smiling eyes over the barriers of fabric and plastic reminded me that behind each shield of personal protective equipment was an actual person.
There is much discussion on the news about the heroes of this national catastrophe. After 9/11, it was the police who first responded to the calls and the firefighters who rushed into the burning towers. So many of those lost their own lives. Today, it is the health care workers and grocery clerks who earn the title of hero.
I have heard of the shortages of protective equipment for doctors and nurses in New York City and the numbers of them who are falling victim to this scourge. But while we praise those stocking the shelves and ringing us up at the register, I noticed on this visit that none of them wore gloves or masks or eye protection. I do not know the length of their shifts, their level of compensation or the arrangements for their health care. But I worried for them and it struck me that I had a level of privilege that I hadn’t considered before.
I have the privilege of self-isolation and live in the illusion of security. I have a home where I can safely become ensconced for the duration. I have internet access to stay connected to friends and family. I have retirement income from the state and federal government that will sustain me regardless of market forces. I have a life partner with whom to share the burden of fear and uncertainty. I have a car filled with gas, a pantry filled with food and a health care plan.
The workers who today cheerfully help us find and bag our selections are exposing themselves to unknown dangers so that the rest of us can eat. How much longer can they afford to do so? And what would happen to all of us if they no longer can?
Nicole Saginor lives in Cornish.