I’m in my office. My girlfriend, Suzanne, is in the living room. My daughter, Annie, is in her room.
We’re all wearing masks. Annie arrived home on Sunday, and started coughing Monday morning. She tested positive for COVID-19 today.
Because I’m showing symptoms, we’re assuming I’m positive, too. A test right now would be inconclusive. Weirdly, I have to act as if I’m negative around Annie, but positive around Suzanne.
This was supposed to be the 2nd day of our Christmas holiday. Instead, we’re all sitting in separate rooms, interacting only in passing or via text or email.
We’re all introverts, but this feels different. We’ve not chosen this time apart. We’re no more than 40 feet from each other. We might as well be on separate planets. We can’t touch. We bring Annie her meals in her room. More precisely, we bring meals to Annie’s door, and then leave so she can get them without getting within six feet of each other. Suzanne and I eat at opposite ends of our kitchen island, which is six feet long. We probably shouldn’t be in the same room, but there’s only so much one can take.
Our lives have been reduced to shared existence. We don’t feel like a family.
We’re isolated individuals in a shared space.