Born of my anxiety from the Covid-19 pandemic, I have been spending copious amounts of time during this isolation period creating abstract acrylic paintings.

After hearing from friends living in Italy who are still suffering from an extended period of intense fear, sadness, and extreme cabin fever, the many works of art that I’ve produced lately reflect my attempts at keeping my own dark thoughts, worries, and ruminations at bay.

I initially turned to painting when I first embarked on a career as a remote, freelance writer. Writing primarily for medical organizations, my work-related writing often involves issues surrounding deadly illnesses. Inevitably, this work can become depressing at times. When that happens, I look to painting as a means of escapism. Creating my own diversionary “change of scenery,” I often end up painting abstracts that unconsciously depict my environmental concerns. (Escaping all of my worries, has obviously proven to be impossible!)

Continue Reading Covid-19 Painting Project

I wakened Tuesday as most everyone did, dreading what news the day might bring about COVID-19. What I didn’t expect was to find a small but definite lump in my breast as I casually brushed my hand over my left side. I froze and thought, “Really? Is this some kind of cosmic joke?” To make matters worse, I knew my family doctor was away until April with no backup.

Over the next two days I lived in various states of panic between periods of calm. I contacted my Ontario Breast Screening Program and booked an emergency mammogram for the next day. They needed a doctor’s requisition, so with the help of my daughter in Toronto I found a nearby walk-in clinic. Wednesday was a time of angst, with a mammogram and follow-up ultrasound. The technician said if there were any urgent news they would call the Walk-in clinic. Thursday afternoon I was wakened from a nap by the phone ringing, and I saw it was the clinic. The receptionist said she would put me on hold, as the doctor wanted to go over the results of my mammogram. I doubt I took more than a shallow breath or two during the agonizing wait for him to come on the line.

“You have a benign growth,” he said. “No need for follow-up.” I could only thank him profusely and take the deepest breath since I had wakened two days before.

I walked with relief to the apartment lobby to check my mail for the first time in two days, disinfectant wipes in hand to shield me from the elevator button and door handles. In my box was a package—strange because I was not expecting any online deliveries. When I opened the shoe-box parcel upstairs, I found a small box of exquisite chocolates, sent by a long-time colleague and friend. A note said, “I want you to know you are admired by me and I value our time together.”

I am rationing these delicacies to one a day. As I sit alone in my apartment I will savour the chocolate, but even more I will give thanks for a health care system that works in times of need and friends who reach out with breath-taking kindness and generosity.

Shut indoors in the middle of a pandemic / you would think it would be quiet / but my two young children are yelling over nothing/the phone is ringing with relatives / updates from the school board / conference calls I can’t bear to pay attention to / outside—a siren, then two / emails and voicemails with urgent missives / the manufactured hysteria surrounding both deadlines and tasks roars in my ears / I long to reply with … Really? Is this REALLY important? What’s going to happen if I don’t do this by 5pm? What? NOTHING. That’s what / but instead my keys plink in soothing staccato tones / I promise results

I type long FB msgs to worried friends / tell amusing stories about my kids to cheer them up / post heartwarming videos / memes and always reply to comments / read all the new government updates / I’m on on on / I write the book chapter that is overdue to my publisher / attend a webinar and make sure to contribute / prepare my upcoming keynote / write grocery lists / supply lists / telephone lists / deliver essential items to those that need them / make sure to exercise and drink lots of water / cook all three meals from scratch / oversee my sons’ cello and piano practices / the house is filled with music

We walk in the woods and I point out to my children this / this is lungwort / if mummy gets sick and can’t stop coughing go into the forest and bring this home and we’ll brew tea / I show them how to use the stove / remind them to feed the chickens / I talk and sing and holler up the stairs / I type and write until the pencil makes dents in my hands and still I can’t say what I need to / can’t get to the place where anything feels right / where my internal tuning fork hits pitch

I tuck them into bed / stand in my studio / tug on the thread of an unfinished shirtdress / something I was making to wear to an office I can no longer go to / to impress people I no longer see

I sew the buttons on anyway / my hands sit in my lap / I don’t weep / I just feel the weight and beauty of the silence / I am comfortable here / when I finally stop talking I can hear my own voice

I’m a social, organized, life-long learner. This has always served me well and particularly does so now.

For example, I belong to a Bridge Club. It’s a retirement plan to keep my brain active. The also allows my husband and me to interact with humans now that our work colleagues are out of our lives. Clearly, sitting at a card table touching the same equipment is not currently appropriate, yet I have not lost contact with this aspect of my life.

I’ve embraced playing bridge online. I’m not talking about the solitary game people play against three robots. I’m referring to real people, in real time. I can play bridge with strangers from around the world or, preferably, with friends whom I know and enjoy. We can continue our companionship even though we’re not in the same physical space. I learned the software quickly and just finished posting instructions, with screens shots, on our club’s Facebook site to help others. We’re all “seniors” and some find it difficult to adapt.

Our Board of Directors, on which I am the secretary because I know many words (ha, ha), needs to meet during this difficult time to discuss the financial challenge. So, yesterday I learned how to use Zoom. My 30-something daughter served as my training partner, and now I can reach-out to my peers. I will remotely hold their hands as they learn to interact in this digital manner. We will meet and move forward to keep the club alive.

I’m participating in an online writing project that emails daily prompts and has a means of posting work to share and support peers. I’m also doing a 30-day photo exercise that prompts me to seek images within my home, or on my isolated walks, again using social media to share inspiration and creativity.

I’m grateful to live in a country that’s safe, with good healthcare and access to technology, which of course is also allowing me to interact with you folks. These factors permit me to experience this situation as an intriguing challenge rather than a frightening trauma. I do not diminish the seriousness of the pandemic, but rather acknowledge my privilege during this time.

Stay well.

My COVID-19 adventure began on March 13th around 3:30 in the afternoon. I was standing in a grocery store loading a weekend’s worth of groceries onto a conveyor belt. Then there was a “ding” from the pocket of a woman ahead of me.

As she whipped out her phone and began reading, more dings came one after the other, then in unison, from people all over this grocery store. Looking around, everyone had their faces glued to a device. Then came the “oh nos” and the “oh my gods” and the “what am I going to dos?” from an entire store full of parents who just found out March break will last at least three weeks because of the coronavirus.

People panicked. Hordes of parents rushed to checkout lines and paid for as much as they could carry. Just when I reached the front of the line, I realized I forgot to pick up toilet paper. I was desperate, down to the last few squares glued to the roll.

I darted for the toilet paper aisle only to find an empty shelf with one dented box of Kleenex left behind. I had never seen such a sight. I grabbed the box and got out of there as fast as I could.

It’s been weeks and I have yet to find any toilet paper. While this may be considered life or death to some people, substitutions can be made that get the job done. But this isn’t the case for every commodity people are panic-buying. Now there are drug shortages that are taking life-saving medication from chronically ill patients’ hands.

With the existence of a brand new virus plaguing humanity, our world is changing in unprecedented ways that will continue to unravel in the coming months. As our governments scramble to repair the economy and scientists work on an effective and readily available vaccine, the general population now finds themselves living their lives much like chronically ill patients do: on a day by day basis.

Every morning, I begin my day by washing down two pills with a glass of strawberry kefir. This has been my routine for almost two years, ever since I was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis (RA) when I was 28 years old. The pills are hydroxychloroquine, a malaria drug that has anti-inflammatory qualities. It is commonly used to treat RA and lupus, both progressive and often debilitating autoimmune diseases. You may have read about hydroxychloroquine in the news in the past weeks now that there is a global shortage of the drug.

Living with RA has forced me to make adjustments to my work and lifestyle that most people would resent. I was once a stressed-out workaholic who clocked long hours on film sets for months at a time because I liked the money and my body could handle it. Now, stress triggers my illness and I can only work or travel when I’m in remission.

My pills work in 24-hour cycles, so I’ve come to view my life in this way, too. There are no guarantees I’ll be physically able to do what I might want to tomorrow. It can be overwhelming at times, but this is the reality of life with RA.

I continue to grieve the loss of my previous life without chronic illness, but I’ve found contentment in my new daily routine. I do my best not to worry about a future with unpredictable bouts of immobility and uncontrollable physical changes. In moments when I fall prey to my own fears, my rheumatologist assures me that I will live a relatively normal and deformity-free life, but only if I take my medication every day. Medication that due to panic-buying has become unavailable.

Because of COVID-19, I’ve isolated myself in my home since March 13th and plan to continue for the foreseeable future. I thought this would keep me safe, but due to false information perpetuated by world leaders drunk on hubris, doctors around the world are writing an increasing number of prescriptions for hydroxychloroquine, resulting in a global drug shortage.

Their reasoning is based on small studies of COVID-19 that do not conclude hydroxychloroquine will “cure” the virus, but suggest it may mitigate it in ways researchers cannot speak to because further testing is needed. And yet, healthy people, including rightfully anxious healthcare providers, have decided that in the absence of answers to abate their fears of COVID-19, they will participate in panic-buying of yet another commodity, dangerously, a medication with no easy substitutions such as buying a box of Kleenex instead of toilet paper.

There is no denying this shortage will negatively impact patients all over the world who depend on this drug to function. My worries are now amplified by the fact that not only could I die from this new virus, but the biting question: what will happen when I run out of hydroxychloroquine? What will I do when my pharmacist tells me I can’t have another three-month supply of this drug I depend on?

Patients who rely on this medication should never be forced to answer this terrifying question. Yet, those who hoard the supply based on fear and conjecture make it impossible for us not to ponder the unthinkable possibility.

By creating a drug shortage, hoarders are directly responsible for the pain and suffering of countless lupus and RA patients, who through no fault of their own have a disease they must battle over the course of their lives with medication.

While many of us consider hydroxychloroquine a lifesaver, the consequence of being an unmedicated RA or lupus patient is case dependent and (usually) not death. However, patients can expect their symptoms to creep back into their lives: unrelenting pain and debilitating inflammation that fractures our bones, erodes our joints, and attacks our organs, resulting in permanent damage to our bodies and added pressure to our overburdened health care systems.

Those who created this global drug shortage may never contract COVID-19. Without this medication, RA and lupus sufferers are guaranteed to get sick. Some of us will flare up, become incapacitated. Inflammation will rob us of our energy and we will be too tired to do anything but stay in bed. Too stiff to pick up a grocery bag, or use a can opener, or play with our children.

Panic-buying is depriving those of us who need this medication of our quality of life. Everyone has the right to live in this world, even those of us who are ill or old. There are countless uplifting stories about people stepping up in heroic ways to help others during this crisis. Is it too much to ask that we practice self-control so the quality of life of chronically ill patients isn’t decimated during this pandemic?

Given my history with RA, my symptoms will kick in about five days after I stop taking hydroxychloroquine. All I can do is take life day by day, and hope the medication will be there when the time comes to refill my prescription.