Isolating when you test positive for Covid-19 is probably the best thing you can do for the health and safety of others, and that is exactly what I’ve done all week. I’ve stayed away from my wife and son in the hopes that I won’t spread the virus to them. It’s the responsible and right thing to do.
It also means that, for the past week, my wife has basically been on solo parenting duty with our son, the only one running errands, and taking care of our cats.
If there is one thing that I am always self-conscious about, it’s the idea of not contributing as much to our household as she does. Quarantining has shone a spotlight on that insecurity of mine and amplified it tenfold. Isolating has me feeling like a layabout, even though I know it’s not true and my wife doesn’t blame me for what happened.
It’s worse because, as I mentioned in a previous blog, thanks to Paxlovid I feel fine. So it’s not like I’m quarantining wrapped in blankets and shivering in the throes of a fever; I’m just hanging out by myself while my wife handles all the household responsibilities.
It came to a head yesterday, when our son came home to report another rough day of emotional regulation at school, on top of our failure to miss something he needed for a parade this weekend for our town’s holiday. She finally cracked and started to cry, with the weight of the week and the revelation of our son’s school struggles starting anew, and there was nothing I could do to comfort her. I couldn’t give her a hug. I couldn’t give her a break from looking after him. All I could do was sit there looking sympathetic from behind my mask, and it fucking killed me.
The medicine for Covid-19 has made great strides forward, but there’s little to be done for the emotional toll it takes when you want to get close to the ones you love and just can’t.