I’m in a class right now taught by
called “Writing Motherhood.” A few weeks ago, she assigned us an excerpt from Jocelyn Nicole Johnson’s My Monticello, titled “Buying a House Ahead of the Apocalypse.” Rachel challenged us to write our own “_____ Ahead of the Apocalypse” essay, an assignment that incidentally coincided with the five-year anniversary of the world shutting down. What I came up with departs from the list form used by Johnson, but is inspired by the way in which Johnson brilliantly captured the dissonance of investing in the future during turbulent times—the simultaneous holding of optimism and pessimism—a dissonance which characterized my 2020. If you haven’t already read Part 1, you should read it before you read Part 2! Thanks for indulging in this lookback.When I get to San Francisco, I realize I’ve been holding my breath for over a week. It’s March 19. It’s also clear that my future husband is not merely harboring a weeklong hangover from New York City. Each afternoon he is overcome with exhaustion and aches. He sweats through the sheets at night. But by morning he feels well enough to run to the ocean and back. We’re both thinking it, but his symptoms don’t match what we have heard about the virus. I urge him to call his doctor, but he doesn’t qualify for a test since he hasn’t been to China or been around anyone who has been to China or anyone with a confirmed case. Having dined at a crowded Han Dynasty in lower Manhattan on March 10 doesn’t count.
His symptoms aside, it is a relief to finally be in his company, to have the solid weight of another body beside mine in the morning as we take in the fresh horror of the day’s news. For the first time, we have a non-finite stretch of days together ahead. We work within sight of each other, we eat together, we walk together, not yet knowing that this will be how we spend most of our days for the next few years. I try to read White Noise.
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