Jennifer LaRue

I write it as I see it.

So many people are experiencing such horrific pain, end-of-life experiences no Hollywood writer could ever have imagined, and I feel too broken by that sadness to even confront it honestly.

So it feels so selfish and petty of me to report that, since my isolation in my tiny condo in the now current Covid-19 hotspot of Hartford, Connecticut, my woes are, for now, small and singular.

The very first day of my confinement, I was quartering a clementine and sliced my left index finger open. Because I no longer have children at home, I had no Band-Aids. So, for a full week, I wrapped my finger in paper towel and Scotch Tape. Yes, I did.

On the first Friday of my confinement, I stubbed my left pinkie toe. Badly. I am pretty sure it’s broken. My foot turned purple and green, and it hurt to wear shoes, and I can’t balance on my left leg in yoga.

But you know what? All of that just serves to remind me how lucky I am to be alive. Best-case scenario, I don’t have that many years left. So I choose right now to not waste another minute worrying. Because, yeah, we once thought life is short?

It’s way shorter than we ever imagined.

Be well, stay safe, keep healthy, connect with your loved ones. The spirit in me appreciates the spirit in you.

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