The reality of the new coronavirus hit me about a week ago, when the number of cases in my home state of New Jersey was still relatively low, less than 50, but had possibly reached my town. A mother and daughter were self-quarantining after working a house party in Princeton where several positive cases were reported.
It was Friday night and my kids were with their father in Pennsylvania. Friday night without kids was always dinner out with my husband and friends. We had plans with four others to go to a newish restaurant in Princeton, a beautiful steakhouse we had made reservations for several days earlier. As my husband and I got ready to leave, we both wondered aloud if we were nuts to go out. But we went, with the feeling that this might be our last dinner out for a long time. We were right.
The next night, another group of friends was having a big karaoke birthday party at our local bar. That was the day cases reached 69 in New Jersey, an alarming jump. That was also the day I received word that my daughter’s school would be closed for a minimum of two weeks. My husband and I decided to stay in, frightened at the thought of socializing with a big group and sharing a karaoke microphone. We watched a movie, played Rummikub. We had no idea this would be our new reality.
By Sunday, cases in New Jersey were near 100. My husband was frantically food shopping and searching for stores with toilet paper. I asked my ex-husband if he could keep the kids for a few days more, but he could not. They came home that afternoon. My 19-year-old son was supposed to work his busboy job that night, but the restaurant canceled his shift, trying to save money amid a drop in business. My daughter, 18, could already sense a seismic shift. She is severely autistic, non-verbal and OCD and thrives on routine. Her world – our world – was about to be turned upside down.
Monday was like nothing I had ever experienced. There were five of us in a relatively big house, but it felt stifling. My self-employed husband was in his office in the next room. My son set up his computer in the piano room to write a paper about the Holocaust. He has Asperger’s and some anxiety, and I kept catching him searching Google for coronavirus details. He was officially on “spring break’’ for the week, and would switch to remote learning the following Monday. My stepdaughter, who had come home from medical school the night before, was at our dining room table studying for the boards.
I set up shop at the table in the kitchen, where I knew my daughter would spend the majority of her time. I had a laptop, my phone and a monitor in front of me. I am a breaking news editor, and so I am covering the coronavirus news as I deal with it. I’m on a video conference call with other editors in various parts of the country. To do my job, I need to be glued to the computer.
I was prepared for my daughter’s meltdowns, and she did not disappoint. As it became clear that she wouldn’t be following her schedule, her mood got worse and worse. At the same time, I was at my computer, trying to deal with breaking Covid-19 news, I had to mute myself on a conference call so colleagues would not hear her screams. I was constantly getting up from the computer to help her in the bathroom, or get her a drink or something to eat.
Her meltdowns got worse, until I finally reached into my beloved medication stash and gave her something to calm down. It did the trick, and she actually took a nap, giving me some time to help out at work.
Cases that day reached 178 in New Jersey.
The next day, we tried it all again. My daughter was no happier Tuesday than she was Monday. I took frequent breaks, trying to entertain her, but she wanted no part of it. I was not going to medicate her again. Finally, in the early afternoon, I asked my son to take her for a long car ride, through the fast-food drive through, through the pharmacy drive-through, and then around town. That gave me about an hour to focus on my work.
That day, cases reached 267.
Things got better the next day, because I got some bigtime help, a babysitter who was willing to take my daughter to her house during the day. After they left, I decided to go into my office. My husband questioned that, but I went anyway. There were very few people there, and I probably could have worked from home, but it was easier to do my job at my office, and I needed to go. I needed to get out. I needed to breathe. I needed to feel some semblance of normal.
That day, New Jersey cases reached 427. Each day, the outbreak has continued to rise. In New Jersey as of today it’s more than 1,000 cases. Numbers will continue to grow. I hear they’re turning a huge concert venue into a testing center next week. The more they test, they more positive cases they will find.
Life as we knew it has changed forever. Even when this outbreak subsides – and it will someday subside – none of us will be the same. Because, literally, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I have said that to myself many times over the years, as I have dealt with different hardships. But it has never been truer than now. That’s not just for autism moms like me, that’s for all of us. Gatherings have been canceled, people are stuck at home, toilet paper and soap are scarce. Parents are home schooling their kids. Sick people are waiting hours for medical care. Business owners are shutting down.
Stay strong, my friends.
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