March 13th, 2020

Every generation has one of those moments where the world stands still. An event—on an exact day—so traumatic or groundbreaking that the shockwaves are felt the world over, and years later you recall—usually over a few beers—where you were when it happened.

For my grandparents, it was Pearl Harbor. My parents, it was the assassination of JFK. For my older cousins, it was when the Berlin Wall came down. And for me, it was September 11th; it was my first week of high school and I was sitting in Ms. Helmbright’s Classical Roots class. Ten minutes in, another teacher waved her into the hallway, they spoke briefly before she returned to the class and switched the TV on. That’s when the second tower was hit.

Everyone I know has a story like that. Usually these “life-changing events” are once in a lifetime—I don’t think the human psyche can store more than a few of these memories at a time. And up until March 13th, 2020 I thought living through September 11th was going to be it for me. Though with varying dates, every human being on earth now has a similar memory about 2020.

It was Friday the 13th; an ominous date in itself, but the atmosphere was tense in the office.

I work in manufacturing, with the core of our goods imported from China. February into March is usually slow for us—practically the whole country takes off the entire month of February, so they can return to their home provinces and celebrate Chinese New Year. Usually, the last week of February sees the trickle-back effect of factories resuming production. But last year was different. It started with one of our major suppliers in Wuhan—a province in China that has now been put on the map—not answering e-mails, or responding with delay after delay due to a “virus”. It only became surprising when we were informed that the entire area was on lockdown. Then our other suppliers started reporting the same thing—except now it had a name; the coronavirus. Initially we laughed, said we were going to ship a case of limes to each of our suppliers to cure the corona. As the weeks dragged on, and workers still weren’t returning, aggravation grew. “It sounds like a cold, get over it!” we said. Then it started popping up everywhere. Lockdowns increased. Symptoms varied. Antibiotics were useless. It was air transmissible. And the death count was mounting. The news was inundated with pictures of desolate city streets and medical workers wearing full-on hazmat suits. But still we mumbled and complained. Our leaders told us not to panic, it would never make it stateside. We were convinced to partake in a delusional denial about the magnitude of the virus. So we pushed on and ignored the raging beast that was inching ever closer.

And for me, it was easy to suppress the panic and pretend none of it existed. I was nearing the end of my third trimester and desperately trying to buy a house with my husband—two failed house inspections and we very stupidly gave notice to our landlord on our rental property. So yeah…impending due date, a mysterious illness bubbling in Asia and Europe, and potential homelessness. Perfect storm, right? I chose to focus on our homelessness and not the coronavirus. The second week of March, things started to turn in the U.S. Cases were being reported and a cruise ship, returning from Asia, was docked off the coast of Florida and passengers were not allowed to disembark. Because the virus was aboard. Then all 50 states had confirmed cases. We were told hygiene was the most important thing—to sing “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees as you wash your hands

I remember the weekend before the 13th—the last “normal” weekend. We had two First Birthday parties—one for my niece and one for my best friend’s daughter. The night before—after our latest house had fallen through, and we desperately bid on another—we talked about whether or not it was a good idea to go to either. “My doctor told me I have nothing to worry about. Just to wash my hands and don’t lick any doorknobs,” I told my husband, who was nervous about going to two VERY crowded events. But there was nothing keeping me from going to those parties. Both had upwards of 50 people there, and I felt bad not hugging or stopping people as they leaned in to give me a kiss. It’s CRAZY for me to think back on those parties; I remember people giving me the side-eye when I stepped back from typical greetings. And just being in a room with that many people—something I didn’t think twice about.

March 11th—Trump closed the borders to Europe and Asia. Just a 30-day travel ban. My chief concern was if the ban was extended—my in-laws had flights booked from the U.K. to visit in June and meet their (still unborn) grandchild. “It’ll only be a month, this is going to blow over,” my husband and I convinced ourselves.

Then March 13th. Friday the 13th.

Like I said, the atmosphere in my office was tense. Every desk in the building had a special gift from HR waiting for us—a bottle of hand sanitizer. My co-workers and I waited until about noon before we started swiping them from uninhabited desks—at that time, hand sanitizer was gold. Gossip was at an all-time high, and I don’t think any actual work was accomplished. People were talking about shortages at the grocery store; that you couldn’t find toilet paper or bleach. I called my husband to make sure our latest Prime Pantry order had arrived—”Yes, we have toilet paper,” he told me. I started hearing whispers from other departments—managers were telling their direct reports to review their queues and pack up things they could do from home. That an announcement was pending from the CEO. I remember getting stopped in the hallway, multiple times, and being asked, “Why are you still coming in?” At the time it was aggravating; I was told by my doctor not to worry. A fact I had to repeat over and over to anyone who questioned me. Then like a hammer, the governor of Pennsylvania made an announcement; all school’s would be closed for a total of two weeks. Within minutes, my company informed us that we’d be doing the same.

It was a jolt to the system. In my almost ten years there, we’d only ever closed once for Hurricane Sandy.

I remember gleefully packing up my desk—making sure to grab my wireless keyboard and mouse—thinking in earnest, “Great! I can work from my couch! Wear pajamas all day!” It was a pregnant woman’s dream! Two weeks was nothing!

Two weeks to flatten the curve, remember?

And now, a year later. A year of staying still, staying away, staying safe and healthy. Just staying.

When all this started, I remember hearing that we’d turn the corner by July. That we needed to do our part until then. At the time, July seemed so far away. I honestly didn’t think I’d survive four months of monotony and social distancing. Now, a year in—a year that Dr. Fauci predicted way back in the beginning—things are slowly stabilizing. No one—except obviously Dr. Fauci—could’ve predicted 2020. No one could’ve predicted the way this awful virus brought the entire world to its knees.

In a lot of ways, I’m thankful to have lived through a time like this. It’s put a lot of things into perspective, and I find joy in the mundane like I never have before. Like just waking up to sunshine—like I did today—and taking a walk around my neighborhood (not too worry, we’re not living in a box down by the river). Or hearing my son laughing from the other room. Staying still has brought me closer to my family, and strengthened the relationship and love I feel for my husband. And it has given me more time with my son. This time has tested us all, and I will be glad when its over. But my memories will be bathed in both sadness and thankfulness.

Years from now, I look forward to reminiscing about March 13th over a few beers. With friends, maskless and not six-feet apart.