I’ve been sequestered in my retirement community for a year. Liberation is in sight.

I’ve been sequestered in my retirement community for a year. Liberation is in sight.

Opinion by Margaret Sullivan

March 24, 2021 at 12:17 a.m. GMT+9

Margaret Sullivan, author of “Fragments From a Mobile Life,” is a resident at Goodwin House Bailey’s Crossroads in Falls Church.

Margaret Sullivan gets her second vaccination against Covid-19 on Feb. 11, 2021, after 11 months in sequestration. (Courtesy of Margaret Sullivan)

Margaret Sullivan, author of “Fragments From a Mobile Life,” is a resident at Goodwin House Bailey’s Crossroads in Falls Church.

The needle jabbed my arm. Second covid-19 vaccination, done. Liberation in sight. Thursday, Feb. 11, 2021, the auditorium in our continuing care retirement community in Falls Church buzzed with matter-of-fact activity. Three weeks earlier, it had been giddy. Not just for our initial shots, but — wow — for the first time in ages, perhaps 45 of us at a time were coming and going in the same place, chatting with neighbors we hadn’t seen in weeks.

Such life-changing inoculations bookend my life: as a baby in 1934, for smallpox, and now, as an old woman, for covid-19. In between, I’ve seen vaccines developed for polio, measles, mumps, rubella, chickenpox and shingles (I was part of that trial). Blessedly, this latest one heralds a much-needed return to sharing our lives with others.

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A year ago, on March 13, 2020, our campus of about 500 residents — ranging in age from the late 60s to 103, mostly still physically and mentally active — was locked down for our protection. We realize we’re vulnerable. My husband and I had chosen to move here to make the most of the years left to us, with care when needed.

In the “before time,” the community was welcoming, busy, social. We visited our families, or they, us. Meals were communal. Grandchildren invaded on weekends. Residents volunteered in the neighborhood and organized events here. Our artists created. Our singers made music. We checked on people we hadn’t seen in a day or two. When one of us died, we gathered to mourn and remember.

We were closely connected with life around us.

That January, news of the infectious covid-19 virus began circulating. Then, “in an abundance of caution,” the shared salt and pepper shakers disappeared from our tables. The frozen yogurt machine stopped dispensing and wore a sign: “This machine is currently fasting. Hopefully it will be back to a regular diet soon.” Hand-sanitizer dispensers appeared. Following the declaration of the global pandemic, our management issued a protocol mandating that residents stay on campus, with masking and social distancing. No one but staff could enter.

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Being sequestered wasn’t surprising. But the reality jolted: not just the abrupt loss of in-person contact with family, friends and events outside, but also the diminished social interaction and daily stimulation inside.

Communal dining ended — we eat in our rooms. No more interesting speakers or Saturday movies. Meetings canceled — or, later, virtual. Days blended: Is this Monday or Friday? Living single meant one kind of loneliness; living double, another. Not being able to visit friends on the assisted living floors added worry about their isolation.

As our protocols evolved, family visits stopped, then became possible if the visitor had a negative test — then, after the Thanksgiving covid spike, stopped again.

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Even cloistered behind our gates, we remained active in the world. Staff and residents held a vigil on our lawn in honor of George Floyd and for social justice. Although we couldn’t join the peaceful marches downtown, our signs shouted from our fence. Our polling place — the auditorium — was relocated; therefore, voting by mail became urgent. A group of us helped residents request ballots, package them for mailing and track them.

Far too many people, we know, don’t have our options. Enormous losses in some nursing homes make us grateful our community is careful and reasonably safe, if not totally unscathed. Fifty-two residents have had covid-19. Twelve of those, our friends and neighbors, have died. Eighty-one staff members have been sick and, mercifully, recovered.

Our heartaches and losses are complicated and multilayered. Many of us mourn friends or family. We who are also caregivers grieve as a spouse’s diminishing cognition accelerates in lockdown. We ache to be able to hug grandchildren — or anyone.

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Keeping on keeping on is exhausting. A covid fog has settled in. “How are you?” is as much commiseration as greeting.

On the other hand, virtual life has been sanity-saving. Social media make connections much easier than even five years ago. Although my husband and I haven’t been with our out-of-town children in over a year, we zoom with them weekly. We “sat in” as one defended his doctoral dissertation. When we mourned my brother’s death from the virus, the family gathered in comforting warmth online.

Although our shots don’t bring back this lost year, they are a greatly appreciated step forward. With 98 percent of the residents and 93 percent of the staff vaccinated, we can begin to open. We mask and distance. But plans are afoot for eating together again. The first visitors — family members — are coming to our apartments. We will go places and hug grandchildren. With the weather warming, this overlong year grinds toward the welcome future.

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