Covid-19 Survivor: An Insignificant Note

How We Live Now: Scenes From The Pandemic, 2021.

Bill Hayes wrote in his book How We Live Now: Scenes From The Pandemic, as I quoted: "The most we can do is to write; intelligently, creatively, critically, evocatively about what it is like living in the world at this time." I try to follow his advice. Here I am.

2019, I was (am) in love; it was the year of everything good. I found my match. I started my PhD. I got a scholarship. Interestingly, that happiness went down in an instant. 2020 was a rollercoaster with the wedding and neverending tragic story of 'loss cause' expense because the vendors couldn't return the money —  because my husband and I chose not to hold other events but the Holy Matrimony —  because we thought (think) that it was (is) inappropriate to be happy during the outbreak; it just doesn't feel right. Growing up stubbornly refusing big weddings, I always fought with my parents about this; I was always against my parents' wishes. They wanted to go big; I would go otherwise. I was (am) supposed to be happy that it happened by my wish, the small wedding I always wanted. But why does it hurt?

I have to admit, it hurts to see my parents trying desperately to hold back their desolation in front of me; it hurts to see them trying to cheer me up. It cuts me deep because I really know that comforting me is their only way of relieving their sorrow. The most painful thing was to see my parents willingly giving up their dream to celebrate their first daughter's wedding, they relented, and in their defeat, there was a lot of effort to cheer me up. At that moment,  I realized that all the debate about marriage between my parents and me was pointless when they said: "As long as you're happy." I cry...hard. Ikhlas, that's the word that my father always said when the money was not half returned by the vendor(s) for various reasons, even when no event was held at the end of the day.

I thought that trial was enough, but God, I was wrong. The kind of emotional rollercoaster did not end there. I had to close 2020 with the loss of a family member. I lost a father. I, sometimes, wonder how people deal with emotional turmoil like this?

Each time The Verve - Drugs Don't Work was playing, the memory flushed me down. It was an entire year, fighting altogether with the illness. It was an entire year...fighting...I remember seeing my husband's sad face, his anxious face every day — bottling his feelings, trying so hard to be strong for his sister and mother, and with great patience, he was able to handle the complexity of hospital administration that didn't help, but worsened the state of patients' family —  even when I got angry with the co-ass, he intervened. He said they did the best they could. In front of the hospital, I remember talking with him at the small bus stop; he talked about his father's memory so fondly; I remember how I am amazed by the things he's going through. I remember holding him tight during the funeral. I remember how he stood strong between a wedding and a funeral. No one is like him. I love him; I want to hug him tight.

There you go, the story of how I survived 2020. I deserve a pat on the back, a smile, and a hug...a lot of hugs.

Fast forwarding the story to 2021, I got exposed in July, in the middle of my (pre) field research. I was so upset, not about the fact that I had to isolate myself for 17 days — but because of this resentment towards people who refuse to get vaccinated and refuse to be traced once they got infected. I was out of sorts to those who were indifferent to this pandemic and took it like nothing. 

I met a lot of people who think as such, from a cab driver, grab driver, masseuse, to a street vendor, even people mostly think that vaccine is not required, and the choice of having one or not is like a religion; that is ok to choose not to get one, that I do me, you do you as if a prayer — we have to respect our differences. That should've happened; I said that to myself a hundred times. But I realized the problem wasn't not only the people but also myself. Pandemic had a traumatic impact on me; it was like 2020 all over again. Every memory of 2020 came back in a flash; it's unfair; I couldn't be in peace; the indignation has consumed me. I see a lot of grief, a lot of loss, a lot of tears that don't stop flowing. It hurt. Not only pain, strangely, I felt guilty when blaming those people for not getting vaccinated, for not obeying the health protocols, for refusing to be traced and self-isolating themselves. It's a bit hard to describe, but I felt small, I was afraid to say what I believed, I felt like my voice was not worthy enough to be heard as if my courage had vanished, I ended up hearing justifications for why they did what they did. I tried to speak out once. I remember I did it to one grab driver. He told me that his son is going to college and refuse to be vaccinated. And, I asked why. He told me his son believes that Covid-19 is just a trick to benefit certain parties. Then, I told him to find a health worker or elderly to talk to his son, hoping the son would listen. I gave a response. Despite the fear, I did speak. At that moment, it senses like a small winning to me.

This long contemplation got me thinking, why we don't have people who are competent to deal with this pandemic, more doctors, more health workers involved in politics, who have access to policymaking. As a result, I have just realized, the impact is very stifling in the community. But then again, the why remained as why.

The virus turned me from a survivor into a piledriver. From now on, I put life at a belly-back, burying unnecessary things in the ground with each impact, potentially paralyzing those who are against being emotionally inclusive. In other words, maintain a distance from those who push me to the edge against indisposed choices and be more concerned with my wellbeing. It is omnipresent yet superficial. Thus, I started creating a 'ground system'. I see a therapist, have fun, go out in nature, play video games, and spend time with my loved ones. Of all things, I write.

As Hayes wrote, even in the enforced solitude and silence, I can sometimes hear myself replaying moments in my life. Any moment, memorable kiss, hugging my parents, great feeling while listening to good music/reading a good book/watching a movie/visiting a place, anything from things said or not said, done or not done, love expressed or not expressed, but most importantly all the gratitude I've ever received, all gratitude I've ever felt... but for now, I am going to stop at the memory in motion,  the gratitude of being healthy...the fact that my condition is getting better. I have no longer experiencing congested breathing. I breathe well (I have even started to exercise normally), although the sense of taste and smell is not fully back... and I passed the candidacy with great feedbacks. So that memory deserves a place amidst all troubles life brings. 

Sehat selalu ya, teman-teman. By saying it here, I mean it. Stay safe.

With love,
Jessy Ismoyo