Oy oys Smith, who runs warehouses at BJ’s Wholesale in Virginia, ignored a January 20 management statement that store employees who were qualified as key employees could register for coronavirus vaccines.
After working without illness for nearly a year, Smith was more afraid of possible side effects from the vaccine than of the virus. Two weeks later his temperature rose to և 103, his head was pounding, he gave a positive result.
“My God, am I going to get to 60?” Smith, 59, recalls being questioned as he lay in bed breathing air. She feared she had infected her husband, who was taken to hospital after a heart attack.
From the beginning, the coronavirus has been a terribly random game to demand moment-by-moment calculations as to whether it is worth risking one’s life to make the most mundane decision: go to the elevator or use a public restroom.
For those infected in recent weeks, when vaccines became available, և experts began to talk about the imminent return to normalcy, the bad moment is the last severe turn of the epidemic.
“It’s like running a race, reaching the last 15 yards and slipping,” said Bill Moore, 68, a guitarist and government contractor who praised the virus in early March.
“I’m just nervous,” he said as he recovered from his home in Bowie. “Everyone loves to win.”
In general, the virus has caused new patients to want to know where and when their luck may disappear. Exercise is now even more frustrating as the epidemic comes to an end.
John von Carlos Green, a resident of Washington, D.C., tested positive for the vaccine in late January. He immediately thought about all his recent moves. Did it happen when he went to the supermarket? Or when he ran in high school? Or did he touch the door handle to the entrance to his apartment building?
“At some point it made no sense to try to understand that,” said Green, 42, who until recently worked for the Attorney General’s Office in Washington. “It can happen to anyone, anywhere, anytime.”
Angie De Grot, 38, a research analyst living in Washington with her husband and two children, was so cautious that she did not think she could have the virus when she suffered a headache and nausea in mid-February. ,
She and her husband, David, have been working from home since last March. They avoided supermarkets and restaurants. Everyone wore a mask when going for a walk. Only one other family member was allowed to enter their row house.
A few days later, unable to taste or smell the pizza he ordered, Angie de Grot called her primary care clinic and listed her symptoms.
“Well, you have a COVID,” said the nurse.
– Really? De Grot answered.
After the test was confirmed by the test, he went back to his bedroom for 13 days, sadly worried that he would not regain his sense of smell and taste. Knowing that he was much better, De Grot was angry that he had somehow become infected, strictly following the government’s instructions.
“I almost made it,” he said. “Although I know someone can get it, it does not feel fair to me.”
Tenisha Dennis has felt the deadly threat of the virus since the beginning of the epidemic. He lives in Prince George’s Cave, a largely suburban suburb where Maryland has one of the most common coronavirus cases, the second leading cause of death.
R&B singer, whose stage name is “Summer”, Dennis said that she knows more than two dozen people who died in the first months of COVID-19 – friends, parents of friends, music promoters – “drops like flies”.
“It was like a long funeral,” said Dennis, 34, who works as a business analyst. “It was death after death.”
Even before he quit a year ago, when the virus was mostly a threat elsewhere, he took precautions by wearing a mask while on holiday in Cancոնn, Mexico, in February. Upon his return, he purchased a stock of K95 masks, plastic shields, ordered his products through Instacart, became aware of social distance, declined invitations to attend jam sessions, and perform at private parties.
At the same time, Dennis was willing to take calculated risks, such as going to restaurants when they were empty or leaving if a crowd gathered.
One mode he maintained was playing with his band, Summer Dennis and Rhymes, in which Moore played guitar. Shortly before the epidemic, Dennis said, their music began to attract online attention. They wanted to keep up the momentum.
“Bill Bill and I were like, ‘We can’t stop now,'” he said. “We felt that art was very important. It was something that made us want to live. You feel things so deeply. “It’s very difficult to get on stage and not be able to get it out of my chest.”
Earlier this month, the band gathered at Dennis’ home in Cheverley for Mistro to shoot a music video as Moore struggled with a cough for several days. They recorded four songs in 90 minutes. Because he sang, Dennis did not wear a mask.
Within a few days, Dennis, his keyboard player, և Moore, and his wife were all positive about the virus. A friend who took a photo the day before at Dennis’ house also received COVID-19.
“It just went through us all,” Dennis said.
While he was ill, Moore was able to get a CVS vaccine only after learning that he would not qualify until 14 days after his release.
“I’m still alive, I’m not there [ventilator]”He said about the delay. “I do not complain.”
Dennis, who has diabetes, had difficulty breathing in the early stages of the disease and felt as if his nerves were bare. At some point, his pulse oximeter showed that his oxygen level had dropped to 87, which was below normal.
“It seems to me that I was in a fight in the bar, hitting my body with my fists,” he said. “I keep looking for bruises on my skin because I feel such pain.”
When he thought about the duration of his illness, he said he was outraged that government officials had not ensured that “the vaccine would have reached us sooner, I would not have been able to catch it.”
But he finds comfort in becoming infected at a time when “we are more socialized so as not to be as angry as we used to be.”
“A year ago,” he said, “when I was on the road, I was so scared.”
After leaving the country last March, oyce Smith continued to work in the admissions department of BJ’s Wholesale Club. So did her husband, James Ames “Pat” Smith, 55, who is Red Bull’s distribution manager.
Their jealousy of those who could “work from home”, this new ubiquitous expression of epidemic life, overshadowed their pride in joining the army of the country’s most capable workers.
Oy oys, who has worked for BJ’s Wholesale for nearly 30 years, cried when hordes of frightened, angry shoppers emptied the shelves. He felt as if “my house was falling apart.”
But he continued to work from 4 a.m. to noon, setting aside the toilet paper boxes he had handed out to elderly shoppers he had noticed in the crowd. “I’m still there,” he wrote on a March 28, 2020, workplace photo he posted on Facebook.
The Smiths who live in Woodbridge, W., do not agree on everything. He supports former President Donald Trump. He has a tattoo on his wrist on the logo of former President Barack Obama. But both were afraid of the coronavirus, even when their partners were sick.
“We thought we were like Teflon,” said Pat, a chronic smoker who shared his wife’s distrust of the vaccine. “It simply came to our notice then. It just didn’t seem like a big deal to get the virus. “
On the morning of February 7, Super Cup Sunday, he woke up with pain in his arm and chest. The woman took him to the emergency room, where they learned that he had a heart attack and needed a stent.
While he was in the hospital, Joyce went home, where he suddenly felt convulsions and fever, which were constantly rising.
As he struggled to breathe, he thought of his mother, who died of a brain aneurysm when Smith was 12 years old. He feared that he would die, leaving his eldest daughter Tess, a high school teacher, in grief.
“I did not want him to be so sad,” oy said.
He thought of a text he had ignored from his employer about getting vaccinated.
What if she infected her husband? For the first time, he began to regret not being registered.
Pat coronavirus test negative. He came home from the hospital a few days later.
When he recovered, he registered both of them for vaccination and told his colleagues to register as well.
Returning to BJ, he learned that his favorite waiter, a 40-year-old man who was grinding floors every night, had become infected and was in the air conditioner.
He immediately began to question the purpose of his work.
How important was that?
“Is it worth it if it takes a life?” he said. “How would my daughter feel if I died?” Would you feel it was worth it? ”