Now that I am fully vaccinated, I can look at this blog without feeling the creepies.
My dissertation was on the figure of the virus in fiction. I suspected that we were long overdue for a new pandemic, and worried about the militarized uses as well. The end of the century came and went.
I was super careful. Stayed home. Took precautions. Watched the country go through a lot of insanity, and it’s not over yet.
But I had already been thinking about various sorts of the deaths, I was determined not to die of this virus.
Logically, I know that I have to go sometime, but each time I have gotten kissing distance from death, there was a simple refusing reason.
I can’t die *this* way.
I can’t die from my own stupidity, or as a result of the violent malevolence of others, because if there were an afterlife, I would never forgive myself. I can’t die from choking on a hot dog, because some people would never stop laughing about it. I can’t die from an ectopic pregnancy, because my little boy needs me to live. I can’t die of despair in this place, so I must leave.
And I can’t die of Covid-19 because I thought too much about viruses, and I have already paid far too many prices for to die of a virus, too. That would be some kind of cosmic joke of the worst sort.
I got married again in the year of the virus. So I snuggled in with my honey. I also seemed to have worked through some issues about which I had deep, painful feelings. So this last year, overall, was good for me. There were a few things that I wished could have been different, but I’m still alive, and protected to some extent. I still even have a hope that maybe the country will continue to move into a healthier zone (in so many ways). We can hope.