City of plague:A new Yorker’s pandemic chronicle

In late March, after New York Governor Andrew Cuomo issued the stay-at-home order, all workers in non-essential industries were required to remain at home. The goal was clear: protect lives, slow the rising curve of infections, and relieve the growing panic that had gripped New Yorkers.

Health is everyone’s most precious possession. Who would willingly gamble with their own life? Especially during a deadly pandemic, I knew I had to strictly follow scientific precautions. Only by preserving my strength could I stand a chance against the virus.

At first, staying home felt unnatural. I drifted through my days, restless and unfocused, unable to write. My thoughts scattered. Anxiety crept in like cold fog. I felt as though I had fallen into a bottomless abyss—alone, uncertain, and afraid.

Yet reason prevailed. Staying home was the only effective remedy. There was no miracle cure.

So I retreated willingly into my basement, hiding from the invisible enemy. Each day, I drank a small glass of red wine to steady my nerves. Experts had said red wine might help suppress the virus—whether true or not, I embraced the comfort of believing it served two purposes.

After all, nothing in this world is more important than life itself.

Fortunately, I still worked two days a week. Those brief outings allowed me to stretch my limbs, clear my mind, and sustain our livelihood. Without them, isolation might have consumed me entirely.

Two weeks later, I could no longer endure confinement.

Food was running low.

Before the pandemic, we shopped once a week, filling our refrigerator until it hummed under the burden. Now its shelves stood nearly empty, stripped bare by time and necessity.

My wife continued working long shifts and feared going out alone after a frightening encounter with a homeless man weeks earlier. Naturally, the responsibility fell to me.

I became the family’s designated provider.

Shopping had once been a casual task—a supporting role. Now it was my burden alone. I pushed the shopping cart out the door with reluctant determination, feeling like a boy suddenly forced to become a man.

By then, New York had become the epicenter of the outbreak.

Thousands were infected daily. Hundreds died each day.

The numbers were unbearable.

Hospitals overflowed. Temporary morgues appeared on sidewalks. Refrigerated trucks held the dead. The dignity of death itself seemed suspended.

Fear wrapped itself around me like a second skin.

Yet I had no choice but to go out.

Each subway ride felt like entering a battlefield.

If I stayed home, we would starve. If I went out, I risked infection. Between hunger and disease, survival demanded courage.

Before leaving, I armed myself carefully: baseball cap, glasses, mask, gloves, hoodie pulled tight. I looked less like myself and more like a masked vigilante.

A reluctant soldier in an invisible war.

The subway was eerily empty.

No crowds. No voices. Only distance.

Chinatown, once alive with noise and color, had fallen silent. Shops were shuttered. Streets were nearly deserted.

Only grocery stores and pharmacies remained open. Outside them, lines stretched endlessly, bending around corners like silent processions.

I joined the queue and waited.

Time lost meaning.

An hour passed.

Then she appeared.

A woman about my age approached the entrance and spoke to the guard.

“I’m a nurse,” she said. “I work at a hospital treating COVID patients. I overslept after a long shift. May I go in quickly?”

Her voice trembled—not with weakness, but exhaustion.

The guard was skeptical.

So was I.

She blushed, humiliated by disbelief, and turned to leave.

Something stirred inside me.

“Let her go first,” I said.

The guard looked at me. “You believe her?”

“Yes,” I replied. “She smells of disinfectant.”

The guard hesitated.

I added, “If necessary, I’ll go to the back of the line.”

And I meant it.

Something in my voice must have reached him. He waved us both inside.

The woman turned to me later and said quietly:

“Thank you for trusting me.”

Her words stayed with me long after.

Later, I went to recharge my phone at a small shop—but it was closed. A notice on the door offered a phone number for emergencies.

I called.

The owner answered.

“No problem,” he said. “I’ll recharge it for you now. Pay me next time.”

Minutes later, my phone buzzed.

Six months of service—already paid.

I stood frozen.

He trusted me, a stranger.

In that moment, I understood something simple and profound:

Trust creates its own shelter.

That evening, my wife told me how residents stood outside hospitals applauding healthcare workers during shift changes.

I felt quiet pride.

In my own small way, I too had offered respect.

Not with applause.

But with trust.

Soon after, the sky above Manhattan filled with fighter jets from the United States Air Force. They soared overhead, trailing colored smoke, honoring frontline workers.

It was meant to inspire hope.

And it did.

But controversy followed.

Crowds gathered to watch. Many ignored masks and distancing rules. Critics accused authorities of double standards, especially after strict enforcement against large funeral gatherings.

The debates were loud.

But beneath them lay a simple truth:

We were all passengers on the same fragile boat.

New Yorkers endured together.

Afraid.

Separated.

Yet connected.

By fear.

By hope.

And by a quiet, unspoken respect for those who stood closest to death—so others could live.