The title is a sentence written to me by one very best friend of mine[1].
When we first heard about the new virus, it was something happening in a galaxy far, far away. Not a long, long time ago, though. Everybody was kind of oblivious to the fact that we do not live in the ages in which it took Central Asian hordes centuries to cross the Eurasian supercontinent anymore. The whole world is right here, at our doorstep in a couple of hours or a day or two.
So, when the virus first appeared in Europe, or to be more precise: when the news first confirmed that the virus appeared in Europe, it seemed to be a shock for everyone. Moreover, nobody seemed to know anything about the virus, news were contradictory, more false ones then actual well-researched ones.
The state went into closure. Only the necessary grocery shops remained open. We were sealed in our homes. Opening the window at night to let a bit of fresh air into the apartment? No way! The virus might creep in through it. Do not touch your face, they said. How was I supposed to administer eye drops, something I do twice a day? The virus can be washed down from your mouth with hot water, they said. It would end in your stomach where the acids would consume it, they said. Drinking hot water may sound funny in the comic strip « Astérix chez le bretons », but not so much in real life.
When I had to go out, I was equipped with a face-mask and plastic gloves. And it was strictly limited to the nearest grocery shop, where I bought food that can last for some time: rice, pasta, tinned food,… I did not hoard. I had a special cardboard box in which the bought groceries would be quarantined for a couple of days before storing them properly or using them. After each outing I would immerse in a hot bath to wash away what could be there to have to be washed away. I was careful not to touch my outside clothes when back home.
The funny thing was that I, who had been using hand disinfectant since my baby-sitting days[2] (You cannot baby-sit without an arsenal of cleaning stuff in your bag!), could not find any in pharmacies. At least at the beginning.
In short, outside was dangerous, inside was safe.
Until…
One spring morning, I was still in bed, the earthquake stroke. The strongest one I have ever experienced. It lasted indefinitely long. At the moment it seemed that it will never stop until it toppled everything. Being woken up by such an experience is one that you can never forget, no matter how much you try.
What to do? Go out, where the virus reigns? Stay inside and wait for the next shock? I packed a couple of things and went to the near-by park, where I felt two more aftershocks, both weaker than the initial one. The park was full of people, bewildered, confused and distraught as I was. And then (on 22 March!) it started to snow.
One friend wrote on Facebook: “Snow following an earthquake in the middle of a pandemic ‒ sounds like a bad Hollywood movie.”
There was nothing else to do than to go back home and hope for the best. Of course, every creaking, crackling, murmur had me alert immediately, even the quietest one. And then there is me, so susceptible to vibrations in normal circumstances. Luckily, I still had some tranquiliser and sleeping pills given to me by my doctor some weeks ago for the insomnia that was tormenting me.
Going to the toilet or taking a shower was out of the question! What if…? Closing the doors between rooms? No way!
Nights were the worst. At night everything could happen. At night every little sound sounded like destruction. (And it still does.)
But an even worster problem was an overwhelming paranoia: both outside is not safe and inside is not safe anymore.
The main shock affected more the eastern part of the city centre and, of course, the epicentre in its north-eastern suburbs.
The life was returning back to some semi-normal at a snail’s pace. After a while, the city re-opened, but going out was still a challenge. Mask and gloves on. I had to force myself to go out at first, but with time it became a normal activity.
My hands suffered a lot from the gloves and the constant washing. The skin was dry and there were little cracks from time to time. It took me quite a while to compel myself to exit my home without them. Eventually, I did, and my hand skin condition improved rather quickly.
With the mask it was not so easy. It has been only a couple of months since I roam outside freely without a mask on my face. I still do put it on when I enter an establishment where it is requested for me to do so.
When we started to treat the earthquake as something from our past (and when I finally cleaned all the mortar debris from all the rooms), another one stroke[3]. And this was an even worse one. It annihilated a couple of towns to the south of my city. It was felt in Friuli, Austria, Hungary,… The sight of my apartment during it was a sight that I would never forget. The wardrobes rocking so much that I still cannot understand how they managed to stay upright after all. Through the window I could see parts of the façade tumbling down. And that sound! (For months after that I was unable to listen to any intense music.) I thought that this was the end, that this was it.
It lasted and it lasted and it lasted.
The strongest that hit the city in the last 140 years[4]!
When it was over, I packed a few necessities, ran out, called a cab and went to my father’s. It was not quite of fear, but more of some necessity to be together. And stayed there for a month.
It was not the happiest of arrangements. They (my father and his wife) were stuck in their way, I in mine. I was torn between my desire to return home and the terror of the vision of my apartment trembling that still besieged my mind vividly. I would go home to pick something (and turn on and off some lights so that it did not look like it was abandoned) every week, but always entered with fear. Every time when I saw the level of damage in there, I could not imagine how to bring the place to some kind of normal again.
While living with my father I did all the shopping for them, but whenever going out or returning back in, I avoided the elevator. I was frightened of being stuck in it.
Eventually, my father helped my by engaging a very diligent and hard-working woman to help me clean up my apartment. So I came back home. But I could not force myself to sleep in my bed at night, the same bed from which the first earthquake so wildly driven me out of. I was sleeping on the couch. The clean-up woman came to work for seven days at least (I did not count) before everything was top notch again. Except the walls, of course.
Months have passed before I was able to return to my bed.
Even more months have passed before I was able to sleep with my bedroom door closed.
I sometimes dream of an earthquake.
I simply become resigned: if there were another one, we would all be killed and the city would not exist anymore anyway.
Yes, I did not come out of this crisis without emotional damages.
[1] She knows who she is.
[2] The baby is of age now!
[3] Some nine months after the first.
[4] My city is encircled by spas.
Linguist's eye on things 