When my daughter was exposed to coronavirus, I was forced to stay away

After my daughter was exposed to a person with a confirmed case of the COVID-19 coronavirus, my doctor instructed me to keep a six-foot distance from my little girl at all times. She was tested at our local hospital, and after seven days, we'll know the results.

Before the chaos of the coronavirus outbreak, the evening hours were the highlight of my day. I counted down the hours until my nine-year-old daughter Simone would arrive home from school. I nudged her to complete tedious homework assignments, so we’d have several hours to play, draw pictures, or build award-worthy LEGO creations.

Sometimes, I baked cupcakes for us to devour after clearing our dinner plates. Almost every meal I cooked was dictated by her somewhat limited palate. She is a picky eater, what can I say? Once the sun set and the clock ticked bedtime, my daughter and I would snuggle up in her bed and she’d read several stories aloud for me to hear. We’d give each other goodnight butterfly kisses — and “one last hug” always meant at least a dozen more.  

After her exposure, everything changed. The only time we broke the distancing rule was when I brought her in to be tested for the contagion; I couldn’t find another way around it. The turnaround for receiving results is upward of seven days in our area.

Health care workers walked up to my car wearing hazmat suits,  I thought she'd be frightened — but she wasn’t. In fact, Simone actually noticed a striking resemblance between the doctors and space astronauts. She asked if they’d be shuttling her to the moon to swab her for the laboratory testing.

My daughter hasn’t appeared to be sick.  She has no notable symptoms, besides sporadic coughing which is hopefully just a result of her asthmatic diagnosis. I want to pick her up and hold her — and whisper in her ear how everything will be okay, but I can’t.

I’m 29 years of age and immunocompromised due to a critically low white blood cell (WBC) count. WBCs protect our bodies against infectious diseases and foreign invaders. Because my cells are mostly depleted, I’ve been placed in the “high risk” category of contracting the virus that is plaguing people worldwide.

I suffer from several mental illnesses, with generalized anxiety, depression, and agoraphobia being most crippling. Regression could occur, considering I've been warned against hugging, kissing, and even holding my own daughter’s hand. But I will not allow that to happen. I am a mother above anything else; my daughter’s well-being is my priority.

The best way I can approach the days to come is with a sane mind and calm demeanor. Simone isn’t phased by having interacted with someone who has a confirmed case. Nor has she expressed sadness or confusion regarding the strict distancing instructions. She is resilient, always has been and I admire that.

Every time I’ve flown on an airplane, the flight attendant instructed me to put my oxygen mask on first, before helping my child with hers. If I was to run out of oxygen, I’d be unable to assist her or anyone else in need. Metaphorically, I’m in the same boat right now. I need to place my health first and if I don’t, I’m gambling with my life—playing Russian roulette with the chance of leaving Simone without a mother.

I came really close to taking that gamble one night. I stepped a foot closer than I’m supposed to, with every intention of hugging my sweet daughter. I wanted to console her. Simone was the one to tell me no.

Maybe I’m the one who needed consoling after all. My daughter is wise beyond her years, an empath, an old soul. She remains logical when I become impulsive. Adorably, she extended her arm out as far as it could reach, holding her enormous unicorn stuffed animal. She told me I could hold the other end for two seconds and then I had to let go.

We modified the seemingly drastic precaution ever so slightly. I may not have touched her, but oddly enough — touching the same toy at the same time made me feel closer to her in some strange way. I washed my hands afterward as my eyes welled up with tears. “I’m washing away my daughter's germs. She isn’t a germ. She is my flesh and blood,” I remember thinking.

In the past few days, I’ve been learning how to parent my child from six feet away. We cannot eat our meals at the dinner table together anymore. I’ve allowed her to watch television in the living room during breakfast, lunch, and dinnertime. I sit at our kitchen table, where she is still within my view. She laughs and we chat, life continues. I wear latex gloves as I wash her plate and utensils. It all feels awkward and unnatural, but I’m gradually habituating.

Bath time can be challenging. I run my daughter's bathwater, adjust the temperature and keep an eye on her — to the best of my ability since I cannot enter the bathroom. I sit in the room adjacent and listen to ensure that she is alright. I have her sing songs so I know she isn’t drowning.

She tells me jokes and riddles. Some of them are actually exceptionally funny. “There’s 30 cows and 28 chickens. How many didn’t?” This is her favorite mathematical riddle. It left me dumbfounded the first time she quizzed me with it. In case you’re stuck, twenty ATE chickens — the clue I needed in order to solve it.

Today, we have an agenda tacked to the wall, written on a large sheet of pink poster board. I usually wake her up in the early hours of the day with gentle kisses on her forehead. This morning, I stood at the entrance of her bedroom and sang a silly song. She pretended to sleep through it, but the urge to burst out laughing took over her.

Simone brushed her teeth in the upstairs bathroom and I did the same — downstairs. Luckily, she has a colorful timer that plays music, to let her know when she’s brushed for an adequate amount of time. We ate pancakes for breakfast in separate rooms and she watched "Spongebob Squarepants;" I could see and hear her laughter. Now, it’s her favorite time of the day: Roblox time.

Roblox is a massive multiplayer platform with thousands of online games created by other users. I like how there aren't any advertisements. I have been much more lenient with screen time the past three days and I’ll continue to be until this dreadful situation is over.

After breakfast, we will meet in the same Roblox game and play together for two hours. My avatar trails closely behind hers as we run through the virtual town of Meep City. My avatar doesn’t need to keep a six-foot distance. Just like with her unicorn toy, I’ll relish the two hours of gaming where I am afforded the opportunity to feel closer to her.

Lunch is similar to breakfast. This afternoon we will have chicken nuggets with honey and white rice. The local supermarket sold out of poultry, leading us to order 20 pounds of nuggets from the internet instead. Between lunch and dinner, we play games and draw pictures. Simone likes chess. I tell her where to move my pawns, horses, queens, and so on. It’s an interesting way to play, but we haven’t minded the variation. Charades is another classic that we’ve played quite a bit in the past 72 hours.

We can’t cuddle during bedtime stories anymore. While this was saddening at first, I continuously remind myself that this is only temporary. Simone lays in bed and cheerfully reads her stories aloud and I plop onto a beanbag chair in the entryway of her room. Our butterfly kisses will have to wait four more days. For now, we blow each other loud, dramatic kisses. I pretend to catch each one and place it in my pocket.

I can’t lie and say I haven’t been tempted to step within the “danger” zone and embrace her. I’ve flirted with the idea more times than I care to admit. Every time I consider disobeying my doctors’ direct orders, I remember the announcements given by flight attendants. I’m not neglecting Simone by distancing myself. I’m being the best mother that I can be.

This will all be over soon and it’ll become nothing but a blurred memory of the past. Maybe, we’ll even laugh about it one day. For now, praying for my daughter’s health, keeping my distance, and lightening the mood for both of our sakes is my responsibility. Distractions and games keep us occupied, shifting our focus a bit so that life feels more normalized. My daughter is and always has been the most important person in my life. It may seem backward, but I know protecting myself is the only way to truly protect her—I can do this. I know I can do this. We have one more day to go.