Short Story About Pandemic – 10 Best Short Story About Covid-19 2021

SHORT STORY ABOUT PANDEMIC – This article will give you an example of a short story about the Covid-19 pandemic. Additionally, these examples of short stories about the experience in the Covid-19 pandemic will show you the situation of the world. Especially the children’s experiences during the lockdown and how the pandemic has changed and affected many lives in the Philippines and around the world.

The Short Story about Pandemic shows the experience of people in times of trial. There’s a sad and happy experience of people that could give us a lesson and inspiration. Hence, amidst the Covid-19 pandemic, let us inspire others to strive to live and grow during these trying times. God will give us strength to overcome all these sufferings and struggles brought by the covid-19 pandemic.

See also: Essay About Pandemic

Short Story About Pandemic – 10 Best Short Story About Covid-19

Short Story About Pandemic – 10 Best Short Story About Covid-19

Kindly continue reading up to the end of this article for you to gain some inspiration from the speakers. They brought their mind out just to give us a genuine and realistic example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic. Additionally, enjoy reading, and may this short story about the covid-19 pandemic, help you to be resilient in times of the pandemic in the Philippines and around the world.

Definitely My New Normal

The aroma of 2020 was beautiful. Many saw themselves achieving their goals and aspirations. “Huu ni mwaka wa bwana na lazima tutabarikiwa” (This is the year of the Lord and we must be blessed), many said. Plans were made, but COVID-19 happened, and everything, for many, came to a standstill.

I am a journalist by profession, and for some months before COVID, I was involved in a lot of freelance writing. Most of my writing was drawn from interviews with corporates. Due to some of the measures that were put in place to try and combat the COVID-19 crisis, my interviews were unceremoniously ended. I, however, had to think of ways to keep the writing alive.

Besides my writing job, I had landed an opportunity at an organization called World Merit Kenya, which is in the process of setting up base in our country. World Merit Kenya is on a mission to end extreme poverty, fight gender inequalities, and control the climate crisis, with the United Nation’s Social Development Goals as a blueprint. Our target audience is slums, the vulnerable in Eastlands, refugees, and other marginalized communities. This means that plenty of on-ground activities are involved. The COVID-19 measures interfered with everything, and we were not able to kick-off operations as anticipated.

As an organization, we had to think of ways of working with the pandemic to create impacts. We have therefore taken advantage of the online space, and we are doing a lot of sensitization on COVID-19, gender based violence, and mental health, among other topics. We do a lot of Zoom meetings to keep things moving, and we have seen a lot of progress.

Yes, times are tough, the situation is tense all over the world, and so many are hopeless, but I choose to focus on the positives. In fact, I can proudly say that I have gotten re-introduced to self. I got into a workout routine with friends, and we keep each other updated on our progress via WhatsApp, every evening. My mind has become healthier, and I have become more productive.

Even though we work from home, my efforts were noticed, and I received a promotion. From a Director of Humanitarian Aid, I am now the Assistant Programs Coordinator and Head of Communications. For me, there is no going back to normal. My present normal is what I want to live with post COVID-19, and yes, 2020 is still the year I will achieve my goals.

Short story about pandemic Covid-19 by Mical Imbukwa, Nairobi, Kenya
April 30, 2020

The short story entitled Definitely My New Normal is an example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic. This example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic serves as an inspiration to become productive and resilient during this trying time, the pandemic. Additionally, we must unite as one with our leaders who do their best to apprehend this Covid-19 Pandemic.

On the Young Doctors Who Came of Age During a Pandemic

Emma Goldberg Tells the Story of Sam and Jeremy

The third Friday in March was Match Day. After four years of medical school, Sam and his classmates would be placed into residency programs for the next phase of their training. For Sam, the day held extra significance. His parents were supposed to meet his boyfriend Jeremy’s family—one of those gatherings that bore the peculiar quality of familiarity and awkward novelty all at once. Sam’s family would fly in from Ohio, Jeremy’s from Texas.

Match Day is when you find out which of the hospitals you’ve listed as your top choices has picked you too. It is the archetypal medical coming-of-age rite. On Match Day, the next three years of Sam’s life would take on distinct shape, contoured by the program and city where he would train (which he hoped would be at NYU).

The NYU match ceremony, which just Sam’s family would attend, was scheduled for Friday afternoon. Sam and Jeremy agreed that their families’ first meeting would be later that night, over Sabbath dinner at their apartment. They’d both grown up in Jewish families that marked Friday evenings with too much food and boisterous conversation. They knew there was no weighty interaction that the right menu couldn’t ease, and settled accordingly on handmade pasta from Raffetto’s, the luxe Italian grocery store two blocks from their apartment, paired with a classic Trader Joe’s spring mix salad.

If you zoomed out as though to see them through the long end of a telescope, just the faint edges of their lives visible, you’d glimpse a little Greenwich Village apartment as distinctly New York as a Noah Baumbach film. Two boys from Cincinnati and Fort Worth, bodies entangled on the couch. Jeremy is slim, with a square jawline and closely cropped brown hair. His face is small and his features delicate, which makes his big, warm eyes seem to take up even more space. He is well dressed, in a varsity jacket, a heather-gray T-shirt, and skinny jeans. Sam is slightly taller and broader-shouldered, his mouth fixed in a permanently impish grin. He has a crew cut and thick, dark brows, a silver piercing in his ear, and an ever-present layer of scruff on his chin.

Sam and Jeremy met marching in the New York City AIDS walk for their synagogue, a queer congregation called Beit Simchat Torah in North Chelsea. When they moved in together in Sam’s third year of med school, their life took on the firm architecture of a real relationship. Not the tentative will-they-won’t-they of mid-twenties dating in New York, the stomach-squeezing angst of unanswered texts, but the concrete quality of partnership. They shared a home. They divvied up chores and grocery trips. And on most days they balanced one another out; Sam could be more cerebral and wry, while Jeremy was sweet and earnestly enthusiastic. He had a tone of voice that made you think anything you’d just said was a good idea.

Match Day is when you find out which of the hospitals you’ve listed as your top choices has picked you too. It is the archetypal medical coming-of-age rite.
Match Day was a validation of all that early adulthood work. Sam would find out where he would spend the next three years, his first phase as an MD. His family and Jeremy’s family would meet. Names would be put to faces. Conversation would bump along, then lift off. Inside jokes would take form, becoming part of their families’ shared history.

Like so much of the news around coronavirus, the sense of loss came gradually and then all at once. Sam got a call from his parents one afternoon. “What do you think will happen with Match Day?” they asked him. “How is this all going to work?” Sam’s mom was a planner. She was probably scanning the terms of the flights that she’d booked months ago on the other end of the line.

“I’m not sure,” Sam said. They were all holding out hope that it would happen, though this was partly shaped by the desire to cling to all the events surrounding Match Day, the Shabbat dinner and the family vacation to the Grand Canyon they had planned for the spring.

Sometime later, Sam got an email from NYU: the ceremony would be limited just to graduating class, faculty, and staff. Sam’s parents soon realized there would be no flight from Cincinnati to New York.

In the days that followed, the other normalities of their life evaporated so quickly that by the time the announcement came that Match Day would be virtual, it was no surprise. The NBA shut down; Broadway theaters went dark. By then, Sam and Jeremy’s once-full routine had condensed to near comic emptiness. Where their days had once been a jumble of alarm clocks and MetroCards, now it was just the two of them ordering takeout to the apartment. Every trip outside, even just for milk and eggs, felt fraught. The days took on a colorless congruity; Monday was the same as Tuesday, and Tuesday the same as Saturday. The apartment also became Jeremy’s office when his media company sent everyone to work from home.

On Match Day, Jeremy ran to the corner liquor store to buy champagne. Then he ran over to Posh Pop Bakery, the little shop on Bleecker that had miraculously stayed open as the rest of the city shut down, and stubbornly purchased just as many pastries as he would have if both his and Sam’s families were in town. Sam didn’t bother turning on the virtual ceremony; he was too nervous about actually getting his match. He FaceTimed his parents and maniacally hit refresh on his email.

In the days that followed, the other normalities of their life evaporated so quickly that by the time the announcement came that Match Day would be virtual, it was no surprise.
It came at 11:58 a.m. “It’s NYU!” It was the hospital’s primary-care internal medicine program, Sam’s top choice. Jeremy popped the bottle. And for a moment there was just the soundtrack of an otherworldly celebration—the cheers of his mom and dad on the phone, the hiss of champagne, and somewhere far away the blare of the city sirens.

*

After all the stress of medical school—the late-night cramming, the ungodly early wake-ups, the Step 1 exam, the Step 2 exam, all those endless exams—this was supposed to be a spring of unwinding, before residency started in July. Sam was going to brush up on his medical Spanish, but he and Jeremy could also do what other less busy couples did. What did other twenty-something couples do? Bake sourdough? They could bake sourdough. Some of Sam’s classmates called this term, their second half of fourth year, “the most expensive vacation you’ll ever pay for.” But this vision of a relaxing few months was quickly evaporating.

The coronavirus had bulldozed its way through cities and populations and headlines and cable news, and by now some of its early myths were fading. It was clear that this was not just a disease of the old and sick. New York wouldn’t contain it, couldn’t contain it. And many people would die.

NYU decided to make an offer: Sam and his classmates could graduate a month early, if they wanted to, and work for several weeks in NYU-affiliated hospitals overwhelmed by the surge of Covid patients. They would be sent into the hospitals where they had done their advanced med school rotations, meaning Sam would go to Bellevue. Regardless of these early graduates’ specialties, whether pediatrics or psychiatry, they would help in the internal medicine units, which were most feeling the crunch.

Confined to their apartment and reading apocalyptic news stories from Milan and Wuhan, Sam and Jeremy felt the weight of the situation. To Sam, starting his hospital work three months early to help tend to Covid patients seemed like a responsible choice. He was young and healthy. This was the point of his medical education: to be of use in times of crisis. He’d even sent emails to his research mentor asking about opportunities to volunteer. But both he and Jeremy realized the risk. There was so little known about the virus. Some of his classmates whispered worriedly about the infection rates among health care workers in China, where more than three thousand medical workers had been sickened with Covid.

Besides all that, Sam and Jeremy were young queer men raised just after the HIV crisis. Much like the children of Holocaust survivors who were born years after the war but inherited trauma from the camps, people who came out as gay in the 2000s inherited their own kind of anguish. Theirs were the films and the songs and the diatribes of the AIDS epidemic. All those photos of people who died in their early twenties, groups of friends wiped out in San Francisco and Chicago and New York. Right where Sam and Jeremy now lived, in the Village, whole blocks of boys had vanished. The most painful thing was thinking about the way that virus lodged itself in relationships, like a cudgel. If you were sick, then your partner was likely sick; if you took a risk, then you could kill the person you loved.

The coronavirus had bulldozed its way through cities and populations and headlines and cable news, and by now some of its early myths were fading.
Sam and Jeremy came out in an age of condoms and nonabstinence sex education. In his sophomore year, Sam played in the ensemble band for a performance of Rent at his high school, which was one of the first in the country to stage the show. During college, he worked at a campus wellness center testing students for chlamydia, gonorrhea, and HIV. He even gave a TEDx talk to classmates on destigmatizing preventive health measures like taking PrEP to prevent HIV infection.

By virtue of the decade he was born in, Sam wouldn’t have to carry the pain of losing his whole community, or the all-consuming fear of losing his own life. Sam’s would be the generation that lived without a death sentence.

Until coronavirus. All those years of fervently preaching safe sex, and here Sam was in danger from an unknown disease. And worse still, possibly putting Jeremy in harm’s way. Sam knew that he could, more likely than not, be exposed to coronavirus. Its viral particles would be everywhere as Sam leaned over patient beds to draw blood or take medical histories. The contaminated elastic of his mask could brush against his eyes as he pulled it off.

One evening they talked out their options. Jeremy’s parents had just called in a panic to ask if he had considered moving out of the apartment while Sam was working at Bellevue. The two discussed it as Sam cooked dinner and Jeremy lay on the couch nearby.

“I could apartment-sit,” Jeremy mused. He had a coworker with a studio a few blocks away who was staying with a boyfriend in Brooklyn.

Confined to their apartment and reading apocalyptic news stories from Milan and Wuhan, Sam and Jeremy felt the weight of the situation.
“There are those hotels offering free rooms for health care workers,” Sam said. “I think the Four Seasons in Midtown is doing it.”

But Sam didn’t want to spend the next two months alone; neither did Jeremy. They wanted to debrief their days and watch Tiger King and cook together.

They agreed that Sam would develop an elaborate routine to douse himself in sanitizer and try to prevent any possibility of taking the virus home. They said they would see how it went for the first few days and then reevaluate. But Sam knew, realistically, that he wouldn’t weather the weeks ahead on his own. The most insidious part of the virus was not just the dread it sparked, but that its nature meant you might have to face that dread alone.

*

Among Bellevue doctors, the first formal mention of the coronavirus came on January 24, in the weekly staff email: This is a novel coronavirus with its epicenter in Wuhan, China, with a ~14-day incubation period and potential for person-to-person transmission (though limited). . . . Risk to New Yorkers is considered low, and there have been no known health care worker infections.

Fast-forward seven weeks. As the virus began spreading across American states, shuttled on airplanes, transmitted at bars and bachelorette parties, the uneasy question of what space there was for medical students in this crisis hung over the hospitals.

The fourth-year medical students were untried. They had worked in the hospitals during rotations, but only under heavy supervision. Some school administrators felt a protective instinct toward these rookies. At the same time, they were also only three months away from beginning their careers, and it was evident that the hospitals would soon be overwhelmed, especially in New York. There was barely time to wrestle with these choices anyway. Crisis warps the speed at which time passes, every second both fleeting and costly. The siege was coming.

They agreed that Sam would develop an elaborate routine to douse himself in sanitizer and try to prevent any possibility of taking the virus home.
At first, on March 17, came an advisory from the Association of American Medical Colleges (AAMC), the main research and advocacy group for medical schools and teaching hospitals. The group recommended pulling all students out of their normal clinical rotations until at least the end of March. That would give medical schools time to develop safety protocols and learn more about this novel coronavirus. It would also allow hospitals to conserve protective equipment, which was in alarmingly short supply.

Fourth-year medical students around the country issued a rally ing cry. They wanted to be useful. Ejected from clinical settings, they turned to other tasks. NYU students held a drive collecting surgical masks (8,200 of them) and N95s (700), plucking the rare goods from veterinarians, dry cleaners, nail salons, and tattoo parlors. University of Colorado students deployed to staff Covid call centers. A group of medical students at the University of Minnesota set up the MN CovidSitters so they could babysit for the children of overworked doctors.

But across the Atlantic, as the virus devastated Italy, European governments turned to more extreme measures. In March, Italy announced that it would send its final-year medical students into hospitals months ahead of schedule. British medical schools like Lancaster, Newcastle, and the University of East Anglia also accelerated graduation.

As New York’s hospitals continued to brace themselves, city medical school deans began to reexamine their role in the fight. American hospitals had prepared for “discrete disasters” like mass shootings and hurricanes, but not for sustained periods of crisis like a pandemic. It was evident that staff would be overwhelmed. Texts went back and forth between students wondering whether they would soon be following in the footsteps of their European counterparts. There was no recent precedent for this kind of expedited move to hospital front lines. Medical school upperclassmen had been abruptly given the responsibilities of full physicians during the 1918 Spanish flu. Decades later, during World War II, schools created a fast-track program at the government’s behest while physician shortages mounted. But since then, the rules governing medical education had grown more rigid.

Dr. Steven Abramson, vice dean for academic affairs at NYU medical school, kept receiving emails from fourth-years who said they wanted to help out. After all, these students had been trained by the medical workers now under siege at Bellevue and Tisch. Mulling this over, Dr. Abramson realized that these students had already completed all the curricular requirements—why not take them up on their offer? NYU sent a survey to fourth-year students asking if they would be willing to start work in the hospitals early. These temporary assignments would last just a few weeks in April and May. Within twelve hours, more than half had replied with a resounding yes. Soon after that, the process to get state approval for NYU’s early graduation began. Other schools followed: Albert Einstein College of Medicine, Mount Sinai, Columbia.

As the virus began spreading across American states, shuttled on airplanes, transmitted at bars and bachelorette parties, the uneasy question of what space there was for medical students in this crisis hung over the hospitals.
Sam’s graduation was set for April 3. On the allotted day, Jeremy slipped outside to pick up champagne. Sam opened his laptop and pulled up Webex. It was more than a month before their intended graduation. The virtual ceremony opened with stilted speeches from deans and faculty. Dr. Abramson greeted the group as “members of what we now call the COVID army.”

Sam’s laptop screen glowed with the familiar faces of his classmates, the fifty-two of them who had decided to graduate early. Some were wearing their caps and gowns, and one had made a diploma out of a manila envelope. Rows of Sam’s friends dissolved into giggles as they stumbled through the technical difficulties of a graduation on Webex. Their voices bumped and tumbled over one another. No one was synchronized.

“I do solemnly swear, by whatever I hold most sacred—”

“I do solemnly swear, by—” “that I will be loyal to the profession of medicine and just and generous to its member”

“that I will be loyal to the profession—” “That I will lead my life and practice my art in uprightness and honor.”

They paused for laughter. They scanned their eyes over the grid of classmates in bedrooms and family basements, all ensconced in those last moments of preprofessionalism.

“That into whatsoever home I shall enter it shall be for the good of the sick and the well to the utmost of my power and that I will hold myself aloof from wrong and from corruption and from tempting others to vice.”

They couldn’t squeeze each other’s hands like in a normal graduation; there was for Sam no formal feel of a cap on your head, no thrill of a high-ceilinged auditorium. There was just his Greenwich Village apartment.

“That I will exercise my art solely for the cure of my patients and the prevention of disease and will give no drugs and perform no operation for a criminal purpose and far less suggest such a thing.”

There were Sam’s classmates reading too quickly, speeding through the final words of the oath as others stepped gingerly through. There were those reciting it steadily, like a heartbeat.

“That whatsoever I shall see or hear of the lives of men and women which is not fitting to be spoke, I will keep inviolably secret.”

There was the weight of the words—the way you heard the pulse of each line when you were the only one in the room reading it aloud. There was the mess of sounds, the beeps and dings of fifty-two laptops, a harmony of machines not unlike the din of the hospital floor.

“These things I do promise and in proportion as I am faithful to this oath, may happiness and good repute be ever mine, the opposite if I shall be forsworn.”

Sam heard Jeremy’s cheers, and those of his classmates coming from his laptop. That night, every New Yorker’s cell phone got an emergency push alert asking licensed health care workers to join the front lines and “support health care facilities in need.” Sam’s phone lit up with the message: “Attention all health care workers.” Well, he thought, I’m heeding the call. He’d become a doctor that afternoon in his apartment

Inspiring short stories of Covid-19 by Emma Goldberg
From Life on the Line: Young Doctors Come of Age in a Pandemic by Emma Goldberg
Permission of Harper Books. Copyright © 2021 by Emma Goldberg

The short story entitled On the Young Doctors Who Came of Age During a Pandemic is an example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic. This example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic serves as an inspiration to become productive and resilient during this trying time, the pandemic. Additionally, we must unite as one with our leaders who do their best to apprehend this Covid-19 Pandemic.

Diary Of A Queer Woman During Covid-19

For the first few days when the lockdown started, I didn’t know what to do. I was at home and didn’t have any work to do because I had resigned from my job.

I started ruminating on my former days as an engineering student. My hostel life was very hard and full of unhappy events. I locked myself in my room, because being a lesbian ten years ago was uncommon, in India. I was in a small town where people were extremely homophobic.

I came out about three years back. My family and friends know about my identity, and thankfully they have accepted me. But for almost 25 years, I had struggled with my identity. During the stay at home order, all of it came back, the anxiety and the trauma, and I had no strategy to deal with it.

I discussed my feelings with a friend. Thankfully, I’m in a very safe space during the lockdown, but I know there are people who are stuck with homophobic parents, roommates, and landlords. My friend and I thought, “Let us start a virtual support group.”

So we started “Queer Adda.” ‘Adda’ means an informal conversation between friends, in Assamese. We held our first online support meeting a few weeks ago. It was really exciting. We had around 13 people, and four of them came out for the first time in front of a larger group.

After a session is over, people text things like, “You don’t know what you have done for me. For the first time, I am so happy and confident.” Some of them have said, “I understand now why I’m here, how I can shape myself.” All of this has made me feel happy too. We are sharing stories and struggles, and it helps me deal with my own trauma.

In this lockdown, for the first time, I have also talked to my partner and opened up about abuses I faced as a child, and as a teenager. After talking about this trauma with her, I felt relieved. I started writing about it, and I have opened a YouTube channel where I share my stories of struggle through poetry. I can reach more community people in need, through it. I feel that talking about LGBTQ topics brings more visibility, and with visibility comes acceptance.

After the lockdown is over, I know there is something positive I can do. People in my village do not have access to much. My friend and I are discussing how to reach those in need of support. I have now been able to do things that really matter, for people and for the community. Why shouldn’t I dream big?

Short story about pandemic covid-19 by Mayuri Deka, Guwahati, India
May 16, 2020

The short story entitled Diary Of A Queer Woman During Covid-19 is an example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic. This example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic serves as an inspiration to become productive and resilient during this trying time, the pandemic. Additionally, we must unite as one with our leaders who do their best to apprehend this Covid-19 Pandemic.

Compartmentalizing and Coping: Life as an Emergency Doctor During COVID

Robert Meyer, MD Reflects on the Anxieties of His Occupation in the Last Year

In March 2020, former New York Times journalist Dan Koeppel texted his cousin Robert Meyer, a twenty-year veteran of the emergency room at Montefiore Medical Center in the Bronx and asked On a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being overwhelmed, where do you think you are? Meyer said: 100.

As the pandemic progressed, Meyer continued to update Koeppel with what he’d seen and whom he’d treated. The result, Every Minute Is a Day, is their co-written record of historic turmoil and grief from the perspective of a remarkably resilient ER doctor.

*

A former patient of mine, a psychotherapist, thinks ER doctors live in denial, that it would be impossible to see what we see and not have it take a toll. I don’t agree. I think we are, in fact, a well-adjusted group, even with all the risks and drawbacks. We got into emergency medicine knowing it’s a profession that’s often sad and sometimes tragic, but we each develop our own coping mechanisms. Sometimes that means a lot of compartmentalizing.

Now there’s another layer of fear, another threat facing ER doctors, who are always balancing denial and self-confidence—or even hubris—in order to shield ourselves from the risks we’re taking. We’re beginning to understand that Covid has neurological effects; it can influence your mood or your ability to think, causing encephalopathy (brain inflammation) or brain cell death via oxygen starvation, both of which can lead to cognitive impairment in the form of psychosis or delirium.

We hear that someone has died and immediately we run down the list of comorbidities associated with the disease. We selfishly hope to hear that they were sick to begin with.
It seems almost inevitable that we’re all going to get Covid. So we’ve begun to play a strange game: We hear that someone has died—it could be a doctor—and immediately we run down the list of comorbidities associated with the disease. Did the person have asthma? Were they overweight? We selfishly hope to hear that they were sick to begin with. And most of them were, but there are outliers, perfectly healthy folks who end up in the ICU.

More and more doctors are getting sick, like James T. Goodrich, who ran our pediatric neurosurgery department for more than 30 years. With his distinctive white hair and beard, you couldn’t miss him walking the halls. Everybody knows him because he got Montefiore big headlines when he successfully separated craniopagus (fused at the top of the skull) conjoined twins, first in 2004 and again in 2016. It’s a really tough operation, needless to say. In 2004, a round of tests before surgery showed that the amount of brain tissue the babies shared was more than expected. Some advised against the operation. But he went ahead, and sixteen years later, that first set of twins are alive and well. They’re going to be 20 next year, the same age as my son.

Nobody knows how Goodrich got sick. He was healthy and strong and took every precaution. He worked through early March, then fell ill and died, on March 30. His one comorbidity was his age: He was 74. He worked just a few stories up from the ER. When I hear he is dead, I think, How is that even possible?

*

Deb White is the medical director of the emergency department here on the Weiler Campus. It takes a special person to do what she does. I was offered the equivalent job on Montefiore’s Moses Campus in 2005 and made the mistake of saying yes. I lasted all of two days attending meetings, doing policy planning, and playing nicey-nice. We still joke about it.

Deb is a star, and she is great at all the stuff I suck at. Deb and I went through our medical residency together in the early 1990s, and because of that we have a special relationship. She was born and raised in the Bronx and has chosen to stay here, although she’s brilliant enough to work anywhere she might want to. For years, she was one of the few Black women working as an ER doctor anywhere in the United States. Deb is a great boss: She always has my back, and I always try to have hers.

Deb is a classic Montefiore ER doc: deeply committed to the proper treatment of the hospital’s neediest patients. She protects the doctors who work for her, but she puts patient needs first and doesn’t mind challenging leadership when she believes hospital protocol is getting in the way of patient care. That’s why John Gallagher chose her as director in 2013. Gallagher trained Deb when she was a resident at Jacobi Medical Center, a city hospital right across the street from Montefiore’s Einstein Campus. She’s told me that she enjoyed her residency in large part because of Gallagher’s style. His approach was always personal, treating the patient, not just the medical condition or the disease. She credits Gallagher’s mentorship with changing her not just as a doctor but as a person. I know exactly what she means when she says that she’s worked every day of the past seven years to make good on the potential for leadership Gallagher saw in her. I feel the same way.

Deb also recognizes—and I’m pretty sure she’s right—that few others in the hospital’s leadership would have identified a Black woman to lead the emergency department on the Weiler Campus. An astute judge of talent, Gallagher chose her for the qualities she shows every day: She loves what she does, she’s great at it, and she works tirelessly for the people of the Bronx.

In the first few weeks of this month, she’s been through hell trying to make an overwhelmed emergency room function; managing shifts and sick doctors and staff; rationing equipment and protective gear; and helping dozens of patients, many of whom won’t survive. She’s in the ER practically 24/7, whether to take a meeting or head up the Covid Zone. She never stops moving.

In a meeting, Deb brings up something we haven’t talked about: depression, stress, and suicidal ideation during times of crisis.
Deb also never stops thinking. In addition to her medical degree, she has an MBA from George Washington University. In my career, I’ve never seen anyone more willing to try things, to entertain new ideas, in the spirit of improving patient care. One example is wait times. Most people dread visiting an emergency room not just because they might be really sick, but also because they might not be seen for hours. When I was a resident at Jacobi, there used to be a clock that indicated how long the queue to be seen was, and sometimes it showed a wait time as long as ten hours. Emergency room queues have become such a huge issue that facilities are now rated on how quickly they triage, admit, and discharge patients. Billboards along local highways even advertise, in real time, how long somebody is going to have to wait to be seen at a nearby ER.

One thing Deb did right away was simply to eliminate our waiting rooms. Nobody who comes in has to sit and wait to be evaluated. It doesn’t matter whether you arrive on foot, in a car, or by ambulance. I’m not saying that there aren’t bottlenecks, but most of the time, within minutes, you at least get to talk to a medical professional—a doctor, a physician’s assistant, or a nurse—about what has brought you in. I think that’s a huge boost for the patients, and I hope that it improves how we’re seen not just by our patients but by the entire Bronx community.

But right now, in the spring of 2020, these improvements in patient care and perception can’t help the fact that we don’t have nearly enough Covid tests for either staff members or patients. That has led some of us to pursue creative acquisition methods. I managed to score 25 antibody test kits through a friend of my daughter’s. But then I was left with the awful task of figuring out who would get tested and who wouldn’t. I tested myself, but I skipped my family and brought the kits to work, testing whomever I could. Colleagues who didn’t get a test were upset with me for rationing, but what else could I do? There just weren’t enough kits.

But here’s what’s really unnerving: Everyone who took one of the antibody tests turned out to be negative. Given our level of exposure, you’d think we’d be relieved. Instead, we’re disappointed. How can it be that in spite of our obviously intense exposure to this virus, we don’t have antibodies? No antibodies means any or all of us could get sick. On the positive side, maybe this means that we’re doing a good job with our PPE and the hospital protocols.

*

I’m trying to keep a semblance of regular hours, to space out my shifts and work every three or four days rather than back-to-back. In a meeting, Deb brings up something we haven’t talked about: depression, stress, and suicidal ideation during times of crisis. She says that she’s getting more worried about the doctors on our team: whether we’re going to start getting sick, whether we’re going to start manifesting our own mental health issues, whether the coping mechanisms we’ve all relied on are going to be up to the task. Friday night really got to her. People were dying all around, and a 40-year-old man sobbed in her arms, begging her not to let him die. He said he had a young kid. She comforted him, but it came at a cost, and she recognizes that some of us might be going through similar experiences.

“So I’m just checking in,” Deb says, “wanting to make sure you have a chance to talk about your feelings.” She pauses before continuing. “I want to encourage each of you to take advantage of the professional health services provided by Montefiore.” Her offer is met with a palpable silence. No one is ready to talk about their anxiety, at least not in such a public venue. No one wants to appear weak or to disturb the balance that we all must negotiate internally in order to be fully present, to do the job we were trained to do.

My dad has a saying, “Grief is indivisible,” meaning that even if you could share the feeling, it wouldn’t reduce what you feel. Right now, it seems like the same thing is happening with our collective anxiety. All of us are resigned to probably getting sick at some point, and we are all dealing with death every day. We’re all trying to find ways to handle both. Deb called the meeting so that we could talk things through, but no one has anything to say.

Short story about covid-19 pandemic by Robert Meyer, MD, and Dan Koeppel
Adapted from Every Minute is a Day: A Doctor, An Emergency Room, and a City Under Siege by Robert Meyer (an emergency room doctor at Montefiore Medical Center) and Dan Koeppel (Robert’s cousin and an award-winning writer). Copyright 2021 by Robert Meyer and Dan Koeppel. Published in the United States by Crown, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

The short story entitled Compartmentalizing and Coping: Life as an Emergency Doctor During COVID is an example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic. This example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic serves as an inspiration to become productive and resilient during this trying time, the pandemic. Additionally, we must unite as one with our leaders who do their best to apprehend this Covid-19 Pandemic.

Good Thing It Was My Shift That Night

I’m sweaty and grumpy. In full PPE (gown, mask, face shield, gloves) for the past five hours. Every time I exhale, my glasses and face shield fog up. I just taste stale air from breathing in and out through my mask.

I get a call. The getting a call is usual, as the shelter gets call all the time for new admissions for people experiencing homelessness who are positive for COVID-19 and need a safe place to recover. But the content of the call was unusual. A new mom and her two-week-old baby with COVID are on their way to the shelter. We’ve not had children come yet, let alone an infant. We mostly have men, and most of them have been on the streets or in the shelter system for a long time.

What am I going to do with a baby? My NFP (Nurse Family Partnership, a home visiting program for new parents and babies) training kicks in, and I start going through a checklist of what we’ll need and how to get it: a pack-n-play for sure, probably some clothes and blankets, is she breastfeeding? Better have some formula in case. Haul a cot to a room that is set aside from the men’s area. Oh god, she just had a baby two weeks ago; how can I make this more comfortable for her? She’ll need towels, toiletries, and let me get some snacks together too … chocolate, she’ll need lots of chocolate. I think we’re ready, or as ready as we can be in these circumstances. Man, I’m hot and sweaty now, these plastic gowns are SO hot!

I greet her and the baby at the taxi, help carry the car seat and diaper bag and get them settled in their room. Then I listen to their story: a C-section, discharge home, fight with the baby’s father, leave to go stay with an aunt, the baby is running a 105 degree fever, take her to the ER. She has COVID, how did she get COVID? Stay at the hospital for three days, aunt won’t take them back when it’s time to leave, can’t go back to the father of the baby, either.

So now she’s here, and I just want to gather her in my arms, but I can’t because of this damn virus. Instead, I listen and reflect. Praise her grace and strength. Tell her she’s a good mama for taking care of her baby and doing what she needed to do, despite really challenging circumstances.

Short story about covid-19 pandemic by Kate Rood, Kent County Health Department, Grand Rapids, Michigan, U.S.

The short story entitled Good Thing It Was My Shift That Night is an example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic. This example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic serves as an inspiration to become productive and resilient during this trying time, the pandemic. Additionally, we must unite as one with our leaders who do their best to apprehend this Covid-19 Pandemic.

Short Story About Pandemic – 10 Best Short Story About Covid-19

What Does Untouchable Mean During India’s Covid Crisis?

Saikat Majumdar Considers Echoes of Class and Caste in the Middle of a Pandemic

In India, Covid started as a disease brought in by the rich—those who travel abroad, not those who work at home living payday-to-payday. The first reported Covid case last year in Mumbai’s Dharavi, one of the largest slums in Asia, of a domestic worker who worked in the home of a frequent international traveler, sent panic through the nation. What would Covid look like spreading through a densely populated urban settlement? But that’s not how the pandemic nightmare unfolded in India.

The rich and the upper-middle class stepped in to spread the disease. Unmasked parties and weddings, recreational events at upscale clubs, created sharply mutated waves just as the nation and its delusional leaders were declaring India in the “endgame” of the pandemic. Eventually, the insensitive national government powered massive religious gatherings and months of election rallies to democratize the widely cast net of irresponsibility. Now everybody is dying. The rich and the poor.

A former ambassador dies outside a hospital after a prolonged wait for a bed. Senior administrative officials feel lucky to find places on the floors of hospital rooms on which to lie—while the influential beg for medical oxygen on Twitter. The privatization of the nation’s healthcare has been glaringly revealed to be parallel to the breakdown of its public health system. As Arundhati Roy said in a recent article, it is meaningless to say the system has broken down—as the “system,” indeed, never existed. Thousands, their grief captured on video by citizen and professional journalists, mourn the loss of family members who would have lived but for the supply of oxygen. As anywhere, anytime, the poor suffer more, but in India they don’t talk about it on social media; their voices only seem to be heard when until someone else does the talking—or recording, or Tweeting—for them.

Even as the pandemic ravages entire structures and ecosystems of Indian society, it reveals the intensity and the fragile doubleness of an old bond—that of the working poor with the middle-class and beyond, in the very private spaces of daily domestic life. But what does it mean to be “untouchable” during a pandemic in which the upper classes are making the world more dangerous for the lower?

Every day, hundreds of thousands of domestic workers—those who have always done the heavy lifting in our daily lives—leave snacks and coffee put out on the table from where they pick up their salaries, to be collected when their employers are out of sight, clear of the air. Service and payment are exchanged without hands touching, breath mingling. An ancient distance of untouchability shapes our lives again. But who is afraid to touch whom?

*

As I just stepped out of the bedroom this morning and set foot in the hallway, our housekeeper told me it was not safe to be out. Amma was here. I glanced to my right and saw the woman in the mask. She saw me. We knew what we had to do.

The shadow of caste and the scourge of untouchability continues to haunt India, sparking violence and exclusion in every other corner of the nation.
“Amma” literally “mother,” is an affectionate address for an older woman. Our “Amma,” a woman from Tamil Nadu who has now spent many years working in Delhi, comes to our house every morning to dust and clean the rooms for a monthly payment.

She wears the mandatory Covid mask. Once she’s inside the house, every member of the family, including our housekeeper who lives with us, begins a room-to-room game of musical chairs. Is she done with the living and the dining rooms? Which of the bedrooms is she in right now? It becomes particularly tricky when a still sleep-dazed seven-year-old starts to roam the house in search of a place to fully rouse himself awake.

Our cook comes around mid-afternoon and works for a few hours in the kitchen. I like to make coffee after lunch but cannot go into the kitchen as long as she is there. A low table is placed outside the kitchen. It is the means of communication. Tea, coffee, instructions, questions, salaries.

I’m haunted by our collective memory of untouchability. Accepting the services of those whom we cannot touch. Let them cook and clean while fleeing their breath. I try telling myself that we’re as untouchable to them as they are to us; they can get the disease from us as much as we can get it from them, and they need the salaries as much as we need their labor. But I cannot escape the dark shadow of untouchability that darkens our past.

I’ve personally never known anyone who believed another human being to be untouchable. I grew up in a modern Indian city, received a modern, liberal education; I’ve never heard anyone describe caste as a force that decides the course of their daily behavior. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. But my memory is overcast. I am a caste-and-class-privileged man who grew up in a Hindu society that historically kept entire classes of people pinned to the lowest echelons, fearing their breath or touch as a malign force that sullies what it touches.

Now, in this pandemic, a thick plastic partition shields the driver’s seat from the rest of our car. If and when the driver comes and anyone goes out, everybody masked, we are as protected from another Covid stranger as he is from us.

This bizarre dance of distancing is happening everywhere in India. Middle-class families switch the employment of domestic workers on and off, reduce hours and days, sometimes for weeks and months. Some keep salaries unchanged while others cut staff for good as their own lives change—but for many, now in the second year of the pandemic, the existing system of hired domestic labor is back for the most part, especially for families with the ailing, the elderly, and small children.

Fine layers of ash have started to appear on the terraces of Delhi homes.
An inextricable relation of quotidian intimacy links the employers with the employees, but touch and breath is taboo once again. Part-time nannies, part-time nurses, cooks and cleaners and drivers and anyone who visits from the world outside, often from densely populated housing colonies, must remain behind a door, in another breathing space.

We are masked beings to each other and often our eyes don’t meet. The pandemic forces us to reduce our mutual contact, take short and long hiatuses from each other—and yet we cannot give each other up. What is left, then, of the haunting, shared memory of an ancient untouchability?

*

Fine layers of ash have started to appear on the terraces of Delhi homes. “I live in an open space in a Delhi neighborhood,” says a tweet “and for the past few days it’s been particularly windy, smoky. But I’ve started to notice black stains, ash on the clothes I put out to dry. I didn’t know where it was coming from until I realised that I live barely a km from a crematorium.”

They are not just crematoriums. After a year of erratic suffering under the pandemic, through April and May, bodies have started to be cremated en masse in parking lots and public parks, piled next to each other across the long road to overflowing crematoriums. And they are the lucky ones; reports and videos reveal swollen and decomposed bodies washing up in the Ganges at the border of Bihar and Uttar Pradesh, deaths so numerous they cannot find last rites beyond being thrown in the river. Fear, loss, and despair have entered every single home, touched every single life. Not having had the chance to visit Calcutta in what feels forever—the city where I grew up—I have had to let go of family members, close acquaintances, elderly parents of friends, without the chance to say goodbye. Some were affected by Covid, others from different ailments, a few succumbing to the inevitability of age. But the illness of the time has touched everything.

It has been 18 months since I’ve been able to visit the elderly in my life and I know some of them will not be around when this is over (or, at least, when this becomes a more manageable reality). My grandmother-in-law passes away peacefully in a suburban home at the age of 105. My aunt, the sole surviving member of my father’s family, leaves us in her seventies, taking with her my childhood home and the last opportunity to experience a set of walls, stairwells, and corridors that made a part of me. Neither of them had Covid. But in a way, they, too, are lost to the pandemic. The inability to be by their side in their last moments. The inability to grieve—and celebrate—their lives.

A year of emptiness, despair and destruction. Faces half-remembered, for some, familiar faces, gone. A year of childhood gone from the lives of our young ones: for the fortunate, the continued dystopia of online school, for those less fortunate, the fight for digital data, the loss of learning, of community. Lives and livelihoods uprooted, ended, for migrant workers in the big cities, the long pandemic trek home through tropical summers.

These undeniable ties—of economic need and societal tradition—have survived much battering. This close connection of quotidian labor, the “outside” presence in the home that comes further “inside” than any friend or visiting family member, is an unfortunate but inevitable mutual dependency in one of the most economically polarized societies in the world. It is a bodily, habitual, nutritional and organizational bond, one which, no less than anything else, demarcates a developing country in the global south from a post-industrial economy in the global north.

It has been 18 months since I’ve been able to visit the elderly in my life and I know some of them will not be around when this is over.
The shadow of caste and the scourge of untouchability continues to haunt India, sparking violence and exclusion in every other corner of the nation. The old untouchability was hinged around caste—the lottery of birth that decided one’s place in the social hierarchy of livelihoods. And there were those who were born so “low” as to live outside the structure altogether, those whose touch, breath or shadow “sullied” all those who came near.

The defining currency in this system was labor, most crucially, that of the people who cleared the debris of everyday life, of death at the crematoriums, the jobs which the privileged needed done but considered impure. The raging virus has robbed touch from our lives, of all kind, private and public, social and intimate. Ironically, then, in this deeply staggered society, the most lasting kind of touch is that which continues to enter these private niches of domestic need. And yet it is function without presence, service without visibility, maintenance without breath.

If and when we are able to make peace with the pandemic, push it far enough away to resume social and professional lives that look more recognizable, how shall we clear the shadow of untouchability? For people eager to see friends and colleagues again, those who tweet warning everybody not to fall in love with the first person they get to hug after this is over—how will it be to share kitchen space with your cook, let your child or ailing elderly be with caregivers who make their lives outside? Lives, doubtless, will return to more intricate interstices of labor and payment, embracing those suspended in the fetid breath of the sickness.

Will touchability return when everybody is touchable? Will those accepting service breathe easy in the presence of those accepting payment, step into their shadows? Has the pandemic normalized a new disembodiment of quotidian labor? A new disembodiment that smells of an ancient one?

Inspiring short story about covid-19 pandemic by Saikat Majumdar

The short story entitled What Does Untouchable Mean During India’s Covid Crisis? is an example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic. This example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic serves as an inspiration to become productive and resilient during this trying time, the pandemic. Additionally, we must unite as one with our leaders who do their best to apprehend this Covid-19 Pandemic.

Dear Coronavirus

Dear Coronavirus,

We, the citizens of the world, are rising up as a global healing community. We are shining our Light to let you know that we SEE you. We RESPECT you and realize that you came here to TEACH us something. We realize that we can no longer be who we have been, in the ways we have been because it was NOT working. We are shining HEALING LIGHT, as we KNOW that you cannot survive in THE LIGHT.

We are learning kindness towards one another. We are learning to take better care of the earth. We are learning to take better care of ourselves and each other. We are learning that we can find the money for that which is necessary. We are learning that there are certain things that we can live without. We are also learning that we DON’T want to live without our loved ones, how important it is to let them know how important they are, to us, and how unimportant petty grievances and resentments are. You are teaching us to tap into our creativity, and that laziness doesn’t serve us.

We are now ready for you to leave us, as our healthcare workers, mass transit workers, grocery store workers, port workers, rubbish collectors, and all other essential workers need respite. We need to allow them rest, and that can only happen when you go. This global healing community is shining healing LIGHT, and we are watching you, as you prepare to leave this Earth. We are grateful for ALL you’ve taught us. Our time is now. And so it is!

Short story about covid-19 pandemic by Pamela Grimm, Richmond, California, U.S.

The short story entitled Dear Coronavirus is an example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic. This example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic serves as an inspiration to become productive and resilient during this trying time, the pandemic. Additionally, we must unite as one with our leaders who do their best to apprehend this Covid-19 Pandemic.

My Purpose During A Pandemic

I’m a mental health practitioner living in Bombay. Recently, I graduated from my program and came back home, so excited, looking for jobs. Immediately, the COVID -19 situation happened, and I was housebound.

I had been just about to enter the workforce. I was facing anxiety. How will I find work? How will I pay my student loans? So many things were going on in my head. It’s an anxiety provoking time. We don’t know what’s going to happen afterward, because the economy is bad, and the job market will be affected.

But my friends and I have always talked about starting something together. So when the lockdown happened, we started a mental health initiative. We all wanted to act, at this time, and so we did. We’ve created a startup called “Listen Works.” We do one-on-one online counseling. We receive a decent number of calls from people who are anxious and want to talk to someone.

We also started a project with kids. My friends and I realized that we have the chance to interact with each other online, but lots of children don’t. So we bring kids together in a space online, to play games together. We call it Virtual Activity Club. We recently had our first session with the kids. They were so happy seeing other children who just like them were stuck at home and couldn’t go outside and meet their friends. They said that they liked it, and one child even said that he wanted to keep in touch with the friends he made in the club. A parent also said she was happy that her child was engaged in something instead of complaining about getting bored.

We are trying to connect people. I think starting Listen Works has given us all a sense of purpose that is helping and connecting people, and that in turn has helped us to deal with our own anxieties during this time.

Short story about covid-19 pandemic by Zahra Diwan, Bombay, India

The short story entitled My Purpose During A Pandemic is an example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic. This example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic serves as an inspiration to become productive and resilient during this trying time, the pandemic. Additionally, we must unite as one with our leaders who do their best to apprehend this Covid-19 Pandemic.

Funeral For Our Dead Beliefs

The job I lost on Friday the 13th of March was with the Pacific Whale Foundation on Maui. Since then, I’ve been isolated in the tropical garden that’s my quarter-acre suburban lot. As I’ve tended my fruits and vegetables, I’ve struggled with a survivor’s guilt for being among the “lockdown lucky.” Meanwhile, my plants guiltlessly flourish. They view guilt as a noxious weed; it uses up soil nutrients that could go to food crops. I ponder this while weeding, taking care to weed out unhealthy thoughts and compost them into fertilizer for a better future.

You could say that nature is now my full-time teacher, and I her devoted student. When down on my knees with my trowel, loosening stones, I listen to my bones. The calcium molecules in our bones have been recycled through myriads of plant and animal bodies during our planet’s long experiment with life. And so it is that our bones hold the wisdom of deep time.

In April, my bones began telling me that the COVID-19 crisis isn’t something we can hope to put behind us; it’s something we must deepen into. This demands that we mourn the loss of beliefs killed by the crisis. Those beliefs served us for a long time, so they’ll haunt us like hungry ghosts if they’re not honored with a proper funeral and burial. When given a natural interment, they’ll compost into fertilizer– and the fertilizer will draw the roots of our humanity down deeper.

My choice of a funeral site was easy, as I still cry over the little mound of soil where I buried my cat Alice in January. I’m a widow with no children, and Alice was my constant companion for almost 16 years. Her decomposing body is fertilizing a taro plant. On May 5th, as the moon came full, I dedicated “the Alice mound” as the site of my funeral for our dead beliefs. Then I faced the fact that I had no idea how to conduct this service.

Admitting my ignorance felt healthy, and like the place to pause this story. So I saved this doc and went into the kitchen to make dinner. There I discovered that my refrigerator had died, and all of my emergency preparedness food was a mushy mess. The next morning, I built a compost pile in my garden for the corpses of my lost food.

A compost pile needs scaffolding to let oxygen circulate. As I gathered dead branches for scaffolding, I noticed the horizontal skeleton of my neighbors’ Christmas tree at the back of our lots. I built the pile on it, interspersing each layer of rotten food with a layer of weeds. While doing this, I saw that the loss of my emergency preparedness food is piddling, compared to the losses being suffered in the many parts of the world where people’s immune systems are mortally compromised by industry’s rape of nature for personal profit.

With this realization, my new compost mound– not the Alice mound– became the site of my funeral for our dead beliefs. Now, as I pray over my “COVID-19 Mound,” I appreciate the rich soil it’s generating. I envision this soil fertilizing ways for us to live sustainably on the only planet in the known universe that supports our kind of life. As I sob over our collective tragedy, my tears moisten and soften the ground, enabling the roots of our humanity to reach down deeper.

Short story about covid-19 pandemic by Harriet Witt, Haiku, Hawaii, U.S.

The short story entitled Funeral For Our Dead Beliefs is an example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic. This example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic serves as an inspiration to become productive and resilient during this trying time, the pandemic. Additionally, we must unite as one with our leaders who do their best to apprehend this Covid-19 Pandemic.

Lifelines

My mother is dying and we’re in the middle of a pandemic. Just about the time we put her in home hospice, word started coming out about the Covid-19 virus. Like everyone else, I was unsure about what was happening, what it all meant. All I knew was that I had a 91 year old mother, breathing compromised and on oxygen 24 hours a day, who was nearing her end.

I had been monitoring her slow descent for months, watching as her muscles grew weaker, her eyesight dimmed, her pain deepened. “Why doesn’t God just take me?” she asked again and again. I had no answers.

My world, already grown small from my caretaking responsibilities, began to grow as small as Mom’s, as one by one, all my distractions, all my support systems, all the tools I used to get me through this emotionally difficult time, began to disappear- history classes, volunteer work, writing group, hot tub soaks and water aerobics, political meetings, Quaker fellowship, and social gatherings with friends- all gone. Within two weeks, my usually full calendar was empty. Thankfully, I had a good therapist who was used to meeting online. My lifeline.

Mom lost most of her lifelines as well- the priest no longer came to visit, the layman didn’t deliver the host, the stylist was no longer available to trim her hair. Gone were the little surprises- a neighbor dropping in, a trip to the doctor with a stop at the ice cream shop, a granddaughter coming by to say hello. Her contacts were curtailed to the bare minimum- her caretakers and visits from the masked hospice nurse and chaplain. Everyone else came in through the phone.

So much death around us. It feels abstract until I turn to look into Mom’s face.

Family members who care for her circle around each other, in our own pain, nursing our own fears. We are all waiting for relief, grabbing at the hope that it is not far off.

I set out on my daily walk, the only activity left to me. The breath of spring staves off the growing darkness. I drink in its sweet smell, search for color- bright daffodils and forsythia- that signal the earth is reborn, renewed. I am reassured, this too shall pass. Everything does. Even Momma. Even me someday.

Short story about covid-19 pandemic by Mary Forman, Jamestown, Rhode Island, U.S.

The short story entitled Lifelines is an example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic. This example of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic serves as an inspiration to become productive and resilient during this trying time, the pandemic. Additionally, we must unite as one with our leaders who do their best to apprehend this Covid-19 Pandemic.

Summary

In summary, we have given many examples of a short story about the experience in the covid-19 pandemic. These would surely give us encouragement and inspiration to keep fighting against Covid19 or any trials that come to our life in the Philippines.

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