For no apparent reason, I woke up in the middle of the night. It was barely an hour since I convinced myself I had to sleep, for I planned to finally do something worthwhile in the morning. There was a tightness in my chest, yet, no longer caught under a soporific spell, I lifted myself from my sunken bed and stood by the window.
Three months since a highly contagious virus started to spread here and a quarantine was imposed, it seems to have gone berserk, and doctors are quite lost. From barely being able to breathe, people were now turning into oversized virus particles. Last night’s broadcast showed a hospital that looked like a farm of giant sea urchins. No one knows if this will end anytime soon.
The roads were empty. On normal nights, different vehicles would’ve already passed by, carrying anything from produce for the supermarket nearby, to diligent students who spent their night poring over tomes in a café, to drunk crowds who’d wake up hungover in the morning. Now, there was but stillness, stars twinkling in the deep blue sky.
I read somewhere that touch is the first sense to develop in the womb. It triggers the release of oxytocin, the cuddle hormone, and the ensuing flurry of neural processes imbues touch with meaning, a core part of human experience. Hence, the warmth of hugs, mother-infant bonding, orgasms. Hence, a contagion is agonizing for a species that has evolved for social bonds through touch.
Pacing around my room, I thought of how weeks ago, I’d hug my friends when things got overwhelming. How I was at home, miles away, chewing on the tenderness of Mom’s kaldereta. And how I was in a jeep, slightly annoyed until finally the grouchy woman beside me acknowledged my existence and got my fare to pass to the driver. Even that half-a-minute interaction meant a lot now.
My personal interactions were now limited to ones with supermarket personnel. Any interactions with loved ones and friends were between electromagnetic waves from the cracked screen of my phone. I was pacing back to the window when light from outside came on.
There was my neighbor, whose room—she opened her curtains—I also saw. I remembered her, that kind old lady, giving me some herbs weeks ago. She’s already alone, yet always had that endearing, motherly smile. But tonight, like most other things, it was different.
She was coughing, wheezing loudly. I haven’t seen her these past days to know she was in such a state. She must’ve noticed I was looking, and turned to give a rather forlorn smile. In a blink of my eye, the old woman, with her gray hair and her floral duster, was no longer there, and on the floor lay what looked like a cannonball with spikes.
The tightness in my chest grew into something too heavy for my chest to contain. And there, puncturing the silence of that dimly lit room, I let out a sharp cough. ●
Read the second part.
This article was first published on April 9, 2020.
