I have never spent time in jail, but this last year felt like as close an approximation as I’d care to get to that undesirable experience. I did not do the crime, but I have done the time. With movement and activity restricted at the government’s behest, for the greater good, I adhered to a repetitive, boring schedule to make the days pass more quickly and interestingly, albeit to no avail. The hours dripped by like dully colored molasses. I lost track of what day it was and wore the same set of sweats ad nauseum. Fearing contagion at Trader Joe’s, I approached visits there like a tactical exercise, and got in and out quickly, so my meals rotated on a regular, bland schedule. Fearing germs in the gym, my only exercise took place in “the yard,” weather permitting. And I spent much of the sentence in solitary, with most social interactions occurring at a distance of greater than six feet, sometimes behind plexiglass. While I fully understand that Covid-19 life does not compare to actual incarceration, the term lockdown has felt overwhelmingly apropos.
When I returned to the Bridgeport CVS for my second dose of the Moderna miracle, it felt like an impending reprieve. I waited once again in the now sparsely stocked beef jerky aisle (inmates hungry for both shots and snacks must have decimated the inventory). The CDC-issued card I grasped tightly, now showing the dates and lot numbers for two jabs, morphed in my mind to a Monopoly Get Out of Jail Free card. This substantial rectangle of paper (and I ran, not walked, to Staples to have it laminated – a service which they offered at no charge) would announce my immunity to anyone who took interest: airlines, theaters, customs officials…. And I would be free to move about the world with impunity. I expected that I’d whip my mask off and whirl around some Alpine mountaintop like Maria in The Sound of Music, wanting to sing about my liberation.
Or would I? A night and day of fever, chills, aches, migraines, and lethargy confirmed that my immune system had kicked in and would kick any of those vicious little spiky invaders out, or at least tame them enough to allow me to survive their onslaught.
In reality, I felt more relief at the side effects’ abatement than at my new immunity. How much freedom does the vaccine really afford? I felt more that the prison board had granted me conditional parole or probation than full severance of the ball and chain. While the CDC advises that I can gather in small groups with other vaccinated folks, and even travel soon, they also recommend that I not shed my mask just yet. New strains abound and I live in a hot spot. I linger in the limbo of the two-week waiting period for “full immunity,” but even after that, some small, irrational part of my brain wonders how all this works, if indeed it does. Much like an inmate, inured to life inside, I step out tentatively, not nearly ready to resume “normal” life – if, indeed, we will ever go back to pre-Covid normal. I suspect that much like 9/11, this pandemic will deeply and lastingly impact the way we live our lives.
I adhere to the terms of my probation: I still wear my mask because of the new virulent strains, and because of the very minute chance that I could pick up the virus, fight it off myself, but still infect an unsuspecting unvaccinated victim. I continue to protect myself and everyone around me.
Even if I felt as free as that whirling dervish Maria, the rest of civilization remains unprepared for my debut. Just like a parolee’s weighty ankle bracelet limits movement, state mandates still curtail mine. Most businesses operate at reduced capacities; most countries still struggle with the situation and limit visitors. The wild variations between both vaccine availability and rollout, and inconsistent observations of pandemic precautions on local, state, and national levels means that we are not at uniformly comfortable about returning to full pre-coronavirus capacity.
But the truth is, the ankle bracelet brings comfort, too. I, as I imagine any recently released prisoner might feel, am reluctant to jump into the population pool at the deep end. I have to get used to life on the outside. I have humble aspirations: I want to share a meal with my sister and her family. I want to meet with the book group I moderate in person, not on Zoom. I want to work out at the gym and lose the Covid-cushion I’ve accumulated at my waist and hips. I want my college roommate to come see my now-not-so-new townhome and walk the beach with me. I want to ease my toe into the shallow waves on the shore and say, “See? The water’s fine.”