I open the car door and am struck with a wall of heat. Within seconds beads of sweat are forming on my forehead and between my shoulder blades. The beads of sweat collect and trace down my cleavage. This is the first summer I have had large breasts. It has been mere months since my reconstruction after breast cancer and having cleavage in the summer heat is a completely new and not entirely pleasant experience.
My husband and I make our way from the parking garage to the ancient and historic waterside fort. This is our first “weekend away” since my diagnosis and we are spending the afternoon wandering the streets of one of our favorite quaint historic towns.
My husband enthusiastically marches towards the fort. In my pre COVID pre cancer life I too would be charging forward, but now I hang back. I am nervous. There is a crowd and I am still immunocompromised. It is so hot I would simply sweat through my N95 mask rendering it useless and non protective.
The life of an immunocompromised person during a prolonged pandemic is full of constant challenge. The rest of the world has long since moved on from caring about COVID. Masks are a thing of the distant past. It has been months since the general public was agreeable to social distancing. Most of the people I know, including my husband, live life normally unconcerned about contracting COVID. I however do not have that luxury.
I spent the last two and a half years working the front lines of the pandemic. I am an intensive care unit physician. I have seen enough COVID tragedy to last me a lifetime. The memories of the COVID ECMO life support unit and the horrors I saw there will never leave me.
We fought heroic battles against the virus…and lost…many, many, many times. I still see their faces sometimes. I still hear the sobs of their families. I still see the fear in their eyes when I told them they could no longer survive without a ventilator. Their desperate pleas still echo in my ears…”Save me!” or “I’ll be ok won’t I?” And knowing I couldn’t give them the answer they wanted desperately to hear.
And now I am myself immunocompromised and a prime target for the virus. Over time COVID has become more contagious but less likely to make someone critically ill…that is unless they are someone like me.
For most of the pandemic my immune system was strong. Health and age were on my side. Now, my body is weak and still ever so slowly building back reserve. My immunologist is unsure why my body is not properly making antibodies. I am going through a series of tests to see if my immune system is responding to vaccinations and creating protective antibodies at all. That is a scary thought.
And so as I approach the old stone coquina fort I do not feel the exhilaration of adventure but the dread of exposure. I find myself constantly estimating my distance from the other visitors to this popular historic site. I am too focused on avoiding others to enjoy myself. I don’t know which I hate more, the social ostracism of being the only person wearing a mask or the risk of exposure.
We wander the rooms of the fort. I stay in the well ventilated rooms with big open windows and hold my breath when others walk by too closely. My mind is on COVID transmission statistics and hospital admission rates. Community transmission rates are high and hospitalization rates have crept upwards though not nearly as bad as last summer’s nightmarish delta wave.
Delta killed young healthy people. I was diagnosed with breast cancer just weeks after the delta wave subsided. It is terrifying to think that during that wave I had cancer and didn’t know it. If I had contracted delta it would have certainly killed me.
I am too distracted with my mind’s constant analysis of surrounding danger to read the historical plaques. All I can think about is staying in well ventilated areas. I hate living this way and especially hate being fearful.
I wonder if other immunocompromised people feel the same. I often feel that I am the only person in the world who still lives this way. It can feel quite lonely.
I continue to avoid crowds and continue to social distance. I wear N95s in public indoor spaces including the grocery store, big box stores, and while riding in cars with anyone but my husband. I am also in desperate need of a haircut but can’t justify the risk. Instead I wear my hair in a pony tail which is no easy task with one broken hand.
My close friends and family understand my continued insistence on wearing the N95. Still, I often find myself muttering apologies as if wearing the N95 is an insult to them in some way. They brush off my apologies and assure me none are needed. Acquaintances are harder. They cast questioning glances. I dread having to explain that I am immunocompromised and why. Some people in the community are downright hostile to mask wearers.
But this is my life now. My post cancer body just isn’t strong like it used to be. Like it or not I must continue to be careful and protect myself from a virus my body isn’t strong enough to fight. It is a lonely way to live but I didn’t fight like hell to survive cancer only to land myself in the hospital or worse from COVID.
As we leave the historic fort I gaze out over the water. A sea breeze gently rustles my hair. I find myself longing for a different life. A life where I have a strong healthy body and even stronger immune system. A life where I don’t have to be constantly afraid of getting sick again. I miss my confidence and fearlessness. I miss the luxury of freedom of movement, travel, and carefree closeness with others.
I shrug as I turn away and remind myself this too will pass. In the meantime my husband takes my hand as we distance ourselves from the crowds, settle for tiny pleasures, and head for ice cream.
