Just when I thought the ever-evolving COVID directives were as outrageous as they could possibly be, this month’s reached a whole new level. To put it lightly, September’s road blocks made August’s essential caregiver nonsense seem reasonable. While those who already had and recovered from the virus were previously exempt from re-testing, they’re now required to be swabbed weekly, too, and the results are killing us (no pun intended).
Everything we do depends on the results of our weekly COVID tests. As I’ve shared, we were thankfully able to welcome loved ones back to the community for outdoor visits this summer. They were limited to once weekly, half hour, supervised appointments, but they were something. They’ve since been “temporarily suspended” thanks to dead, dormant coronavirus. To clarify, we’ve had a handful of nonnas who beat COVID-19 a few months ago come back positive during mandatory swabs. They had no symptoms, and according to the infectious disease docs we consulted, the virus was not active; it was dead. Latent. Not multiplying. Morto.
Our governing body, though? Not quite in agreement. Despite epidemiology and ID reports, for all intents and purposes, these were new outbreaks. My loves were even issued a second set of E-numbers (lucky them!). As for everyone else: they’re paying the price. Our temporary suspension remains in place, and that’s the tip of the iceberg. In order to resume outdoor visits, we’re required to be two weeks COVID-free; no none can test positive, regardless of history or symptoms. Dead virus counts. To begin communal dining, small group activities, and indoor appointments, we need 28 days clean. Twenty-eight more days, on top of the over 200 they’ve already spent in isolation.
How? How can this possibly be the way we’re expected to operate? How is it not glaringly obvious that this is killing people? That it’s breaking spirits? That it’s ripping hearts out? That it’s destroying hope? In a slow, lonely, sad, confusing way, it’s killing people. I’m at a loss.