Coronavirus testing our patience
I cried for a good five minutes, I guess. Sobbing silently, big drops of tears running down my cheeks. This is day 9 of my self-isolation and I broke all the promises to myself.
I woke up early this morning at around 6.30 am. Today is the day I smiled remembering we are getting the online grocery delivery today.
I came to Toronto from Bangladesh on 21 March. I have to be in a mandatory self quarantine period of 14 days. My husband has been living here for the last six months. I needed some toiletries urgently and the online delivery system was slower than usual because of the COVID-19 situation.
We aren't under a full lockdown yet, but there is no sign of the curve flattening. The number of infected people is increasing day by day and the prime minister Justin Trudeau's eyes could not hide his sadness even though his words are reassuring as ever.
Conspiracy theories are spreading like wildfire. I follow the Bangladeshi Facebook groups for people living in Toronto, and in Dhaka as well. My mother is regularly forwarding me the message chains that I am supposed to send to a hundred more people to stop this virus from spreading. Chat groups are flooded with misogynist jokes about people staying home with their partners. A guy fell in love with his wife in these quarantined days. His girlfriend is furious. This one cracked me up, I must confess. I am reading Bangladeshi news portals and the international ones. Too much information, but I still do not know when I will be able to go to the gym or have brunch with my friends.
Since I came here, I have been drinking black coffee because my husband is lactose intolerant. He does not need the daily dose of caffeine to act as a sensible adult as I do. I ordered full cream milk and instant coffee for myself as soon as I got here. I think I even had a vague dream of myself having a nice big mug full of coffee sitting in the backyard, two or three days ago.
I ran to the kitchen as soon as the groceries arrived. Boiled milk with a little water, a teaspoon of instant coffee. There you go, my little heaven in a mug. I opened the pack of coffee and the familiar aroma seemed more alluring, even stronger. Almost like the overpriced ones I used to buy from a fancy coffee shop back home when I needed to remind myself that it is just a day job. I am in fact the writer who will win the Man Booker Prize for the best debut novel before turning forty. I lifted the pack for a closer sniff and realised that it was not an instant one. Dark roasted finely blended blah blah blah. To be used for a filter coffee maker which I do not have.
I broke the first promise. I yelled at my husband. He had one job and he failed. He placed the orders, I gave him the screenshots of what I want.
I yelled. I cried. I thought about being dead. All in a day. I thought I was doing fine until this moment. It does not matter how calm I remain in the coming days. I already lost the battle.
In the evening my husband showed me the text from the shop. They replaced some of our orders because those were out of stock.
I should not wait for this to be over to say sorry.