Friday, February 7

Our 14th day of quarantine is a day full of uncertainty. If we hadn't gone outside for supplies, we would be confident we are healthy. Panic and rumors make us nervous. On the news, a man who removed his mask for 15 seconds with a cashier at a supermarket is now infected. I never took off my mask inside a store. Still, I can't be sure my decontamination protocols for clothes and incoming supplies have been enough. Every cough, sniffle, and sneeze arouses concern.

Lin and I debate stocking up now before Chongqing peaks. I let her win the argument, but low and behold, she orders three big bags of groceries anyway. That's love. We're gonna bar the door and wait 14 more days.
We are trying to make a plan for the food. I have a bottle of red wine I'll save for Valentine's Day next week and will make a nice dinner. We stay busy all day. If you strip away the fear, anxiety, and panic, it's like hitting the jackpot for an introvert.

Last night while I'm falling asleep, I regret leaving two unpublished manuscripts in my drawer so long. It made me think of Hemingway's wonderful short story 'The Snows of Kilimanjaro.' I get up out of bed and outline my own 'Snows' -- about the struggles of maintenance and unfinished dreams. That's how a writer's brain works, I guess.

Today's a busy day working on local news. Lots of procedures for getting people back to work after more than 14 days quarantine, and a protocol handbook on public health. I fight hard to amend one passage that's confusing about coronavirus, but not nCoV, transmission, and household pets. There are already such tragic reports about people killing or abandoning their pets due to panic. Both the WHO and local experts say there is no evidence of infected pets carrying nCoV. We amend it, and our station chief passes my concerns up the chain to the health board to clarify their guidebook. I hope in some small way it can ease the suffering of our furry friends a little. It exhausted me, my empathy taxed to the extreme.

Xiaolin makes little paper rabbit finger puppets and entertains baby Ethan on video chat. We play and laugh with him. I eat lentil soup and some potato salad with a couple of delicious German beers. I find myself thinking about dad's fat red fresh tomatoes and the fragrant aroma of lavender in his Ottawa garden in the summertime.

I pick up and sanitize our load of delivered groceries and shower.
Later, I listen to the news. Quarantined cruise ships and the Wuhan plane touching down in Trenton are the talks of the current cycle. I can feel the patience waning as if the international media is hungry for something exciting to report.

I spend a few hours with Margaret Atwood's creative writing class. Her voice is one of a kind. No matter how this goes, I promise myself to post and publish as much of my writing as I can this year. Nothing like the fear of death to get a fire under your ass.