My open letter — my ‘olive branch’ — to make peace with COVID-19

Dear COVID-19,

You may think you have won, but this fight is far from over. Please don’t interpret this letter as a threat, but rather a peace offering written from yours truly with every ounce of optimism I have left.

There are many reasons you may believe the grand prize is yours: schools are shut down, graduations and proms cancelled, thousands unemployed, systems on overload and our nation’s leaders true colors bleed, some a bold stroke of crimson red.

I won’t give you the satisfaction of going on, but I will acknowledge this chaos isn’t entirely your doing.

You are a virus — an infectious agent that replicates only inside the living cells of an organism. To blame you for everything would be selfish and perhaps uneducated. It would make this letter — these fighting words — full of hate. But it’s not. It’s one of hope.

We’re grieving. We yearn so desperately to get back to life as “normal.” If such a thing could exist. We are standing six feet apart, wearing masks and making scarce trips to the grocery store. And while some of us are confident enough to go about life un-phased, many (like me) are still scared of your invisible threat and our country’s safety.

But hopefully it’s clear by now — I’m not here to surrender or fight. I am simply writing to you to extend an olive branch.

You will continue to bring me uncertainty, fear and resentment for the remainder of the year and probably beyond, but I will not let it define me. I will wake up each day and although my body may feel broken and my mind lost in thought, I will put two feet down on the floor and I will make my morning coffee.

That’s right — you heard me. I am making coffee.

The gyms are closed, but that’s OK. Maybe I’ll go for a run. If my joints hurt from carrying too much stress, I will forgive myself and take a short walk instead.

When I return, I will nod my head to you. Not in a weird god-like way, but rather in a neighborly you-can-borrow-my-sugar kind of way. Accepting you as a close presence around the block, but hoping you won’t actually come over greedily and take possession of my condiments.

I might even wave to you, like I used to do back in the days when I commuted to work. I will acknowledge your existence while cracking a smile even if I am not particularly fond of you. I will do it to be cordial. To be human.

I’ll phone my mom even though I don’t feel like talking. I will say, “I love you and I miss you.” I won’t express my deep-seated hatred for you, but rather let you linger there like a ghost or an angel, haunting me while still bringing me a sense of tranquility. You are my unwelcome company.

Then with any ounce of energy I have left, I will try to make a difference. I will try to make a memory out of this day.

Maybe I’ll read. If I can’t focus, I’ll write or listen to a podcast. If I am feeling bold, I’ll volunteer or write a letter to my state senator. But if all else fails, I’ll just sit quietly and count to 20, performing a body scan as if I am an experienced surgeon skillfully completing open heart surgery. Focused and calm. In control.

You’ll be there watching, but for those 20 seconds I will forget about you and embrace that I am alive, knowing I will continue to be kind to others so they may feel alive as well.

And when night falls, I will eat dinner. (I won’t pass up an opportunity to indulge in comfort eating just to try to teach you a lesson!)

I’ll be upfront, my grand dinner won’t be the adventurous steak and macaroni recipe my Ninja Foodie cookbook mocks me with every day since I bought it last Christmas. It will be something easy, like carry out. And as I eat I will remind myself I am loved and tomorrow is a new day. Because it is. Even if you are there.

And in the meantime, weeks will go by and my heroes will continue to fight you. I’ll cheer them on and take comfort in their superhuman abilities to anticipate your every move.

They will dismantle your intricate cell armor and find more cracks in your plan. Cautionary tales will be documented in history books, and I will continue to live my life at a safe distance from everything I love. Soon, the heroes will valiantly come forward with a magic potion that may not rid you, but keep you at bay. And when that day comes, I will be ready. I am certain we all will.

I won’t accept life as returning to “normal,” but as moving forward. And you’ll still be there, but you won’t be the center of attention (I hope). You won’t even be in the same room.

I will continue to ponder this day until it arrives, like a high-profile house guest — much anticipated and fashionably late. I fantasize how we may interact. Maybe we’ll be civil. Maybe I will consider you a distant acquaintance. Maybe — like a horribly violent break-up — you will mean nothing to me at all.

And despite your attempts to return my belongings (precious mementos like 100-piece puzzles and books I had no desire to read), I will continue making my coffee because no matter how bleak you may try to make my world become, I will put my two feet on the ground each morning with purpose.

It won’t always be easy, but it’s a start. Writing this letter to you is my start. Knowing I can’t control you, but I can choose how I react to you. This is how I make amends to my new way of life, which I’ll admit, we had a rocky start.

Now that my confession is out there for your appraisal, I extend my miserably chapped gloved hand towards you. Careful not to make contact, but close enough for you to sense my presence and know I am still out here not trying to fight you.

It is with this olive branch that I digress, no longer fearing you, but embracing you as I try to live my life and make peace with what you have, and may continue to, become.