Amy Hill Hearth

I'm a born writer, and there was no greater proof than the way I reacted to the global pandemic. I didn't think twice. I didn't hesitate. I went into my home office and started to write.

No, I didn't write about the pandemic itself. My topic is an entirely different one. I don't feel as if I chose the subject as much as it chose me. It's what I wanted or needed to write, so I did.

That said, the idea was rattling around in my head for a long time. I'm an "ideas" person, but being in lockdown with my husband and our dog put my mind into overdrive.

I wrote day and night and the result is that just one year later, I have completed a polished, five-hundred page manuscript. Everyone has had their own way to deal with stress; this was mine.

My mother never knew either of her grandmothers. They had both died in the 1918 flu pandemic, several years before my mother was born.

A century later, we are grappling with Covid-19.

As a babyboomer, and therefore at higher risk, I'm staying home and taking every precaution that is known, to date. 

The much greater impact on me personally from Covid-19 has been the death of my mother, possibly from the virus. When she died on March 25, we were told the cause was pneumonia unrelated to Covid-19, but I now have my doubts.

Not much is known yet about Covid-19 although new insights and discoveries seem to be happening by the day. Evidently, social distancing and wearing masks do prevent (or at least greatly reduce) the spread of the virus. For this reason, I wear a mask each time I go out of my home. I would rather be safe than sorry when it comes to a deadly disease.

I don't consider wearing a mask to be a burden or an intrusion on my rights as an American. On the contrary, I see it as my civic duty. 

In areas of our country where people have not been greatly impacted, I hope and pray that it remains that way. Please stay safe and stay well.

Like most everyone else, my life has been upended by the Covid-19 virus. My mother died March 25 from pneumonia, possibly (I think now). She was 94 years old.

Because of precautions, we were not able to be with her during the last days of her life or when she passed away. We did not have a service for her – yet – because it wasn't safe for us to travel to the cemetery, located in Queens, N.Y. In the meantime, her ashes are in an urn at my sister's house.

I have found some solace in the knowledge that my mother was not alone when she passed away. A devoted nurse, who knew and loved her, was with her. It's not the same as having family with her, but I'll take it.

I'm grateful, also, that I had a wonderful visit with my mom not long before she died.

Numerous "Zoom" get-togethers with my three older siblings and their spouses have provided great comfort. On Mother's Day, we shared photos of her and told stories, again, all by Zoom. 

Most importantly, I'm grateful that my mother lived a very happy, productive and satisfying life. She was an unusual person, ahead of her time, a female mathematician in an era when that was rare. She was an interesting and fiercely-loving mother. And, although her body was frail, her mind was 100 percent until the end.

I know that everyone is struggling with the pandemic and now, the economic fall-out. Please stay safe.