I feel like a frog slowly being boiled alive. On Tuesday the 10th, Joy and I went to an evening exhibition at the Breuer branch of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We rode the subway there and back, and we mingled in close quarters with other art lovers, many of them elderly. Coronavirus was in the news but life felt normal, though we made sure to wash our hands whenever we arrived somewhere new. 

Afterward we drank cocktails at Bemelmans, a wonderful old bar adorned with murals by the creator of the classic Madeline books. We weren’t able to linger as long as we wanted to because a jazz band was about to perform and they wanted to charge us $50 cover. I should have paid, and we should have danced and reveled until 4AM.

The next morning, I read over coffee that the Metropolitan Museum of Art was closing all locations. We had been to the last art exhibition in New York City. So too, the New York Public Library. Schools. Movie theaters. Concerts cancelled. Sports seasons cut short. Institution after institution folded, closing the circle tighter and tighter on us. 

Very suddenly the threat of the coronavirus started to feel tangible. I started working from home and we only went out for essentials.There wasn’t much else to go out for anyway; everything was closed. Our building’s gym shut down. But it still didn’t feel really truly real. With symptoms like dry cough, soreness, low-grade fever, and diarrhea, I cracked that I’ve had coronavirus non-stop for the past fifteen years.

That Saturday, the 14th, we went over to a friend’s apartment in Seaport for game night. There were margaritas and white claws and enchiladas. We played Pandemic and joked that we should start the epidemic in Wuhan. We played out of irony, but I think in a way we wanted to be reassured that this thing really can be beat- and we did beat it- twice!

So on Sunday the 15th, a little hungover, Joy and I attended church in our living room. We watched the Trinity Wall Street livestream because they’d announced in the week previous that they were halting all services and events for at least a month. That has since morphed to indefinitely. Their concern lay with all parishioners, but particularly with the risk to the elderly and infirm members of the congregation, as those demographics have much higher mortality rates when exposed to COVID-19. 

The normally full pews were empty; only staff were allowed inside to perform the service. I thought about how important religious life is to many people, especially in a time of great uncertainty such as this. Historically, churches have been places of refuge, places where the doors were always open to those in need. This feels unprecedented.

It’s not. In the more distant past, churches didn’t close during plagues like the Black Death, but they didn’t have today’s knowledge of infectious diseases. During the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918, all churches in Washington D.C. happily complied with orders to close to prevent the spread of the deadly virus. At least today, we have the option of streaming video on the internet. 

It was a novelty experience; a bit like camping or having dinner with the power out. Joy and I served each other communion using Wheat Thins and boxed wine; Joy passed peace to our cats. But it felt good. It feels good to be part of a community, even if you can’t share physical space or physical touch.

Similarly, I’ve been very mindful about scheduling Zoom happy hours, FaceTime calls, and PlayStation multiplayer sessions with friends. It has helped my mental health immensely. I was already feeling isolated in New York City before COVID-19. I have many friends, and most of them are scattered across the United States. Honestly, I should have been doing more of this before the coronavirus.  

After church we went to brunch. We walked by Trinity Church. We had just visited virtually but we couldn’t enter physically. The first restaurant we tried, Schilling, was closed. We walked across the street to Clinton Hall. We sat outside and split a burger and a salad. There was only one other group of diners, on the other side of the patio. The waiters and busboys were standing around, bored. Later that day, the governor banned dine-in service at restaurants. 

For us, nothing remains but our apartment, the grocery store, pickup orders at restaurants, and walks around Battery Park. We are trying now to do what we can to prevent the spread of the virus, either voluntarily or by government edict. No more board game parties, no more art exhibits, no more meals out. For all we know we’ve already had the virus, or have it now. 

I’m unsure how long we can keep all of this up. Humans are social creatures, and need physical contact to survive mentally. It feels impossible that social distancing and self-quarantine can continue for months at a time. I fear something will break within us, or that our culture will be shattered irreparably. How do you balance the immediate threat of human lives lost with the existential threat of civil and societal collapse?