Shut In
written by: Franciska Merrick
I turned thirty-two that day. As it was Monday, I knew it would be a slightly more bearable day. Fewer people graced the streets on a Monday. It was a sunny day, with a slight breeze valiantly attempting to slough heat from my forehead. March was perpetually in perimenopause; hot then cold, clammy then frizzled. Hormonal, to say the least. Hormonal at best, I couldn’t judge, seeing as I was somewhat of a kaleidoscope of behaviour. My mood barometer reading fluctuated as the weather and the week marched on. I liked the outside, but not the outside people. Humans were my moon, pulling my downness up, causing waves of frustration to froth the shores of my heart. I liked the mountains, the rivers, and the dogs. I loved tea. I liked my doctor. I called her. Linda, the receptionist, picks up, grunts an assent, and timeously the prescription lands in my electronic mailbox. Many doctors today want to discuss my flaws ad nauseam, but not Dr. Rauben. She is efficient. She too can’t be bothered by people’s frivolous demands. Linda even does the mandatory temperature and blood pressure tests at reception when you go in person. Linda ends our call with an unusual “Be safe, Gertrude.” Odd, I didn’t imagine her voice to sound so panicked. I aimed to pick up the prescription from the chemist. The pharmacy is not near my home, but the old apothecary likes me and refrains from speaking to me. The store is packed, a queue snaking around the block. Odd. I go home. I still have three months’ supply stored up. I’ll only panic if they can’t deliver them to me tomorrow.
Now, it was time for my birthday ritual. Well, to be fair, this was also my daily ritual. Me, my favorite reading chair, a good book, a pill or three, with a side of canned beef and the quiet that only solitude can furnish. Naturally, pills first. There is only one pack of pills in the brown paper bag. That’s not right. I upend the bag. I manage to shake out nothing but the slip. There it is in black and white! Five units only to Miss Gertrude. Realising this will necessitate a conversation with the old fart at the chemist, my breathing shortens. I can feel the hives rapidly bloom across my chest. My lungs fold in on themselves, refusing to take on any more air. I swallow a tablet. The bitterness grounds me. I call Linda instead. An automated message directs me to the emergency room in case of severe fever and vomiting. Alternatively, self-medicate. Well, you can’t self-medicate without meds. I feel the familiar gallop of horses in my veins. Ice slides down my spine. I have 274 pills left. Now, I have 272 left.
The next day, I headed out armed with indignation and crippling anxiety. Dr. Rauben has to use her words this time. I visualise pills stacked high, in neat rows. I can breathe again. Head at a determined angle, I march until my forehead collides with a gloved hand. Startled, I looked up. My eyes were slow to absorb the entire scene. A man, a white suit, a clear plastic face shield, and white gloves. Slowly, the weird suit’s words penetrate.
“Stay back,” the mask orders.
“Wha…..” surprise steals my voice.
There are hardly any people around. Dr. Rauben’s practice is barricaded all around. Deserted and desolate.
“Are you experiencing a high fever? Vomiting,” Ghost man aims a gun at my head. It emits a monotonous beep. His suit ripples, sounding papery thin as he holsters his gun, then shouts clearly.
I am turned around and shoved in the direction from which I came. Not a gun. My heart and lungs seem at odds with each other. A thermometer, one that quite resembles the one Linda obligingly used to aim at my head during the reception.
“Go home, Ma’am. Stay indoors. Be safe.”
His words bring to mind my call with Linda yesterday. She knew something was going on. Trust the chatty ones to always be up to something. I call her again. No answer. I call Dr. Rauben. The same message plays in my ears. I head to the pharmacy. This door too is locked, proudly displaying an official poster in its glass square.
“In case of severe fever and/or vomiting….” the same refrain.
The rustle of whispers draws me to the side of the building. I lean to peek around the wall. I spy the pharmacist with a man I’ve seen here before. Mr. Hower checks left and right before handing the other man a packet of something he hunches over protectively. My presence seems to momentarily startle him.
“Wait here.” Straightened and recovered, he seems to have concluded.
He leaves me standing in the alley between the neighboring bakery and the pharmacy. I am met by a big brown box. Mr. Hower shuffles after. The label elicits a little whinny from the horses in my veins. Forty-eight thousand small white tablets. If my math is correct, this should last me a good ten years.
“Go home, Gertrude.” He seems relieved when I turn to leave. I am not an entirely rude person. I turn back to thank him, but also mostly to ask him what he knows about the situation at Dr. Rauben. Eventually, I will need more meds.
“Gertrude, she died last night assisting the sick. It’s the fever. Be safe, Gertrude. Don’t come back. Go home and stay home.”
I relieve him of his offering. I have forty-eight thousand, two hundred and seventy pills.
I make my way home. The road is congested, the air polluted by the desperate screams of people making their way to the hospitals and outlying areas. I understand, but I can’t tolerate this scale of auditory mayhem. I look at the trees, plug my ears with wax, and walk home in peace. I am welcomed by the familiar scents and clutter of my life. Safety in numbers, and all that. The people’s noise from outside penetrates my seclusion. Maybe the radio will distract me. More of the same. If you are experiencing any of the following symptoms, make your way to your nearest hospital…. I block out the sound of the melancholy reporter and make my way over to the rows of non-perishables stacked roof-high in my pantry. No one needs such dreary news on a Tuesday. I settle on something sweet, I am stressed after all. The treasure of tablets now cheerfully rests next to my favorite chair. I will need to ration those. The radio reporter’s words interrupt my cravings.
“Highly contagious…virus…thousands dead…isolate…..”
Not a problem, I think to myself, changing the station to something classical, digging in.
Tuesdays and March still seem moody; it is windy, sunny. I have twelve months’ worth of pills left. I have to go find a new Dr. I consider that verbose practitioner two streets down. Only, I can’t make it to his practice. The streets are silent. I am blocked by barricades of rusted cars. Mounds of decay litter the landscape. I look to the trees before my brain is allowed to make sense of the forms around me. Foul air forces its tendrils into my lungs.
“Not a problem,” I think.
I return home and run my fingers along a line of cans, selecting something sweet. I am stressed after all. No one needs such dreary news on a Tuesday.
