OPINION: The sun came out in Brooklyn today and for a brief few hours life felt painfully familiar, eager 30 and 40 somethings running in the park, children playing in trees, the warm breathy air of an almost-spring day gently dancing across bare skin.
Just another Friday afternoon in Park Slope, families leaning into the weekend chill, except that these are unprecedented days, a future where no one is sure.
As I write this New York City is under full lockdown, gripped by the deadly coronavirus. Within mere days we have unwittingly become the epicentre of COVID-19 for the whole of the United States.
Mayor Bill DeBlasio confirmed on Sunday in New York City alone we have just over 5000 cases. Just two weeks ago there were five cases in Brooklyn, now we sit at over a 1000. By the time I send this story and by the time you read it these numbers will have doubled, they will be irrelevant.
We are in a state of shock.
New York City has been brought to its knees.
We did not see this coming.
Just days ago we were in our gyms, hanging with dear friends, picking our kids up from school and waving teachers goodbye.
The alarming speed with which this hit has been unfathomable. A global pandemic was declared just a week ago. The next day New York declared a state of emergency. In the eerie days that followed, we watched all of our beloved cornerstones fall like dominos. Broadway closed, our landmark calendar events cancelled.
We watched as our bars, restaurants, gyms and cinemas closed. And even at that point we had no grasp on this formidable beast, how it would wreak havoc and halt life faster than we could comprehend, faster than we could breathe.
We still have no idea how bad it will get and we won't ever know what's ahead. But we do know, if we follow the trajectory of the last week; it's going to get a lot worse. And fast. Our hospitals are inundated and have few supplies. They are calling out for help. We are ill-equipped to deal with this influx.
We are in a state of shock. We did not see this coming.
As our workplaces ordered us home and our schools closed, parents and kids huddled together in one small home, throwing conference calls, spreadsheets, iPads, and PBJ sandwiches all into one big, messy heap. And we watched and listened, hour by hour now, as the numbers of positive tests kept soaring.
We stepped out for breaths of air amidst 20-minute spells of intense work and asked ourselves; "what the f**k is happening?"
"How can this be happening?"
"Is this real?"
Within mere minutes our society and life as we knew it had crumbled.
This week has felt like that nightmare you can't wake up from. Each morning when I wake I hold onto those quiet, calm breaths before reality hits and hits hard.
There are, many, many moments of tears and grief amongst us all. We are all living with soaring anxiety. We have no idea what life will be like tomorrow, or the day after that. We are living day by day, hour by hour.
And we are grieving, each for our own loss. For some it is job loss, for others it's loss of personal contact.
We grieve for all the milestones and calendar dates that have been erased; and it's not even the loss of seemingly unimportant things like vacations; it's the loss of regularity, achievements and structure.
It's highly unlikely our school leavers will return to school (my son, for example, will not graduate his 5th-grade year from elementary school) It's that marathon you trained for that you now can't run - but it's not even as big as that, its grief for daily life, routine, and human connection.
I am at times reeling from the loss of the community of friends around me, who have kept me afloat here on the daily with casual chats on a street corner, a wave across the road from a neighbour, a smile from a friend at the gym; reeling from losing incredibly comforting relationships, the ones that sustain you when nothing else does - and work projects you knew were just about to bear fruit. But I am aware, as the projections tell us, that soon many will be grieving from loss of life.
And yet - in these head-spinning days, in these moments, of grief, I remind myself all is not lost.
We are still here. The goodness is still here, everything we have worked so hard for - is still here.
Our dreams are still here.
Our goals are still here.
The love and energy that we connected to before, it's all still here.
The people we love are all still here. And it will all still be here when this is over - but only if we all play our part: stay inside. By doing this we'll do our damnedest to protect what we have built and those we love.
Never before have we faced a bigger battle against a more ferocious beast.
Today, we are in shock, yes.
But tomorrow we will mobilise. Tomorrow we will unify. We will gather resources and we will figure out a way to assist those on the front lines; and those at risk. We will see boutique clothing labels say they stand ready to make masks and gowns for our health teams. We will see people print masks at home on their 3D printers.
We will throw money at our local businesses so we can ensure they are still there when this is over, when we need them to be there for us.
And we can be sure, once we are all focused on 'the solution' - that we'll see miracles so mighty they will eclipse the fall.
Use your quiet time wisely. Get creative. Get thinking. Get planning. We need solutions focused minds. Mother nature has given us all the time in the world now to dream - so dream.
It will be a long night, my friends.
But the sun will rise again.
We will unify. Together, apart.
We will kick fear aside and we will protect every single beautiful corner of this one, precious, life.
Be safe.
Stay inside.
Wash your hands.
Renee Mundy is a Kiwi journalist working in New York
