I shed my clothes in the garage, shivering as the temperature drops noticeably compared to inside my home. I can’t step in just yet. My garments might harbor a deadly virus that has turned the world upside down. As I cross the threshold, I toss the potential contaminants straight into the laundry and rush to the shower, all while tuning out the loud cries of my two-year-old son and my five-year-old daughter, along with the anxious expressions of my husband and mother.
Unlike me, they haven’t ventured out in days, dutifully obeying the stay-at-home order issued by the governor. But I have no choice. I’m a pharmacist, classified as an essential worker amidst the COVID-19 crisis. And honestly? I’m scared every single day.
While I recognize that my risk of exposure isn’t as grave as that faced by doctors and nurses directly treating infected patients—whom I deeply respect—I still interact with sick individuals daily, putting me at risk. The onset of quarantine saw a wave of patients rushing to refill prescriptions, fearing they might lose access later. It feels like every other person I encounter is coughing, sneezing, or has a fever. Perhaps I’ve become overly sensitive to these symptoms now, but the threat feels real.
As part of my oath, I pledged to prioritize the welfare of humanity and alleviate suffering. I take my role seriously and refuse to back away from my responsibilities to my community. Yet, the anxiety of whether today is the day I accidentally get coughed on or touch the wrong surface weighs heavily on my mind. Every prescription for cough medicine or inhalers sends a jolt of panic through me. Assisting a patient in the aisle means I often hold my breath, trying to minimize my exposure.
To mitigate my risk, I take control of what I can. I begin each shift by disinfecting phones and counters. My hands are chapped from constant washing and sanitizing. I wear a mask and gloves, but I struggle to find time to eat or use the restroom. It’s not that I’m prohibited from doing so; rather, the process of removing my gloves and mask and washing my hands feels like an exhausting task. Before I leave work, I sanitize my phone and keys, wipe down surfaces even if I’m the only one there, and when I arrive home, I change into fresh clothes in the garage. My jacket and purse stay in the car, and my shoes never cross the threshold. Any dishes or water bottles I use go directly into the dishwasher to avoid anyone else handling them. My husband even sleeps in the basement to lessen his exposure risk. Maybe my precautions are excessive, but given the circumstances, can I really take that chance?
There are moments when I feel like I can’t breathe, where fear paralyzes me. It’s not just about contracting the virus; it’s about potentially bringing it home to my family—my children, my husband, my mother.
At home, I try to be as cautious as possible, avoiding close contact (a near-impossible task with young kids who thrive on being “in your face”), wiping down doorknobs, and steam cleaning floors. Some days are more challenging than others—some days I come home and find myself hiding in the bathroom or lingering in the shower, hoping those few extra minutes can safeguard my loved ones from the most dangerous thing in the house: me.
I hold onto the hope that things will improve soon. But I can’t shake the feeling that the worst is yet to come. The emotional strain, the fear, and the anxiety will likely escalate as the pandemic continues to impact our communities. The days, weeks, or months ahead (let’s hope not months) will test our resilience.
I just pray for the strength to endure this, not only physically but mentally. I look forward to the day when I can breathe freely again without the fear of someone being too close. When I can enjoy a family dinner without the rituals of stripping down and disinfecting everything in sight. I dream of my children returning to school, the park, and their friends. I long for peaceful nights without the suffocating worry that I might inadvertently harm someone I love or even a stranger.
That day may come eventually, but it’s not today.
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In summary, I am a pharmacist working through the pandemic, facing daily fears of exposure to COVID-19 while ensuring the well-being of my family and community. My routine involves strict sanitization practices, and I grapple with the emotional toll this situation takes. I hope for a return to normalcy but recognize that the journey ahead will be challenging.
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