lost weeks, lost lives

the last couple weeks were dark.
in this pandemic i found myself cocooned in my tiny apartment, contemplating the value of my life. if people i thought were my friends and family could not be even bothered to wear a mask, how much does that say about how much they value the lives of us healthcare workers who have to take care of them when they invariable become ill? 
i was plunged into the realm of telemedicine, which initially felt like such a blessing, that i can remain employed, safe, and still helpful. as the weeks have drawn out and i've had to spend my time dealing with nearly invisible rashes and getting them a test so they can have a boob job or letting them come to the lab to check for allergies so they can decide whether or not they can get a dog -- i felt like a failure. it felt like i was failing to uphold the most sacred duty of my profession, which is to heal and protect.
my isolation, which i'm sure was echoed in other small apartments and rooms across the nation, became emotionally amplified because of this. not only straining against the painful physical isolation as a single person, but the emotional and existential isolation caused by observing the actions and attitudes of my community.
even work began to feel unsafe, with reports of tire slashing. an elderly staff member was assaulted in broad daylight and could have died. i saw more security and police officers in the last couple weeks than i had in the last several years.
in the dark, between moments of uncontrollable tears, i started to plan.
i knew this was wrong. so i reached out to crisis counseling.
my friends, whom i actually felt isolated against, risked their own space to come to mine. they helped save my life.

and reflecting on this now: though it was empty and vast, the only danger during this time to myself was myself.  i felt overwhelmed by the outside and the inside that i forgot my privilege.

never in my life, for example, had i ever thought a police man would kill me for nothing.