Relationships
I believe I have a right to exist safely in public spaces as a high-risk, disabled person.
Do others have an obligation to make that possible?
We were both crying.
The more that people disregard precautions, the longer Im going to be stuck here.
I know, she said.
She swallowed, still crying.
I just I dont want this to put a wrench in our friendship.
I didnt have an answer for this.
I didnt want it to either.
Haley had been one of my first friends in college.
Wed seen each other through a lot.
But after we ended the call, it didnt feel like wed reached a resolution.
It was painful and open and sharp.
I was still hurting.
I have Spinal Muscular Atrophy, which, in the context of COVID, translates to severely compromised lungs.
Roughly half of the individuals Ive spoken to have felt strain in their relationships.
I need other people to survive.
These are acts of staying alive.
These are acts of living.
Before COVID, Id never faced such blatant disregard for disabled and chronically ill life.
These choices felt like betrayals, and each new one stung.
How do you do it?I had texted her.
How do you continue relationships with people who keep showing that they dont care?
Oh, friend, I know,she had written back.
I cant just cut people out of my life.
I cant do that.
Oh, I cant either.
Ive just had to distance myself from people for a while.
In November 2020, I interviewedTy Dykemafor the COVID Disability Archive.
Dykema is an artist living in Grand Rapids, Michigan, who also has Spinal Muscular Atrophy.
Prior to the pandemic, he often spoke at local events.
Thats where a lot of the hurt comes from.
Disability activistCharis Hillhas ended relationships for similar reasons.
I believe I have a right to exist safely in public spaces.
Do others have an obligation to make that happen?
What do we owe each other, as humans, as friends?
As the pandemic has gone on, COVID mitigation has become a difficult balance between individual and systemic accountability.
For me, it can be hard, then, to navigate my expectations of others.
One friend, who sets meetings for their co-workers, chose tostop scheduling in-person work eventsafter talking with Hill.
Still, the circle of people they were close to before the pandemic has shrunk.
Their online community of disabled autistic queer people, however all identities the activist shares has grown.
Today, people with preexisting conditions are dying at appallinglydisproportionate rates.
I also know that cutting myself off from people I love for this reason feels like admitting defeat.
It feels like bowing my head and quietly accepting societys wish for me to stay shut inside.
Mine certainly isnt, and perhaps never will be.
This isnt an advice column.
I owe it to myself and my community to walk away from painful dead ends.
Thankfully, I have others in my life who are willing to have hard conversations.
The tearful FaceTime with Haley was not the last time we discussed these issues.
Our conversations after that call were still sometimes hard and painful, but we worked through them.
Over time things started to feel easier.
Another time, she told me shed suggested some tangiblesafety tips to her family and friends.
I felt myself relax, swallowing grateful tears.
I felt seen and understood, hopeful again, at home in this friendship.
I hope that things will continue to shift, and that moments I once saw as endings will reopen.
This article was originally published onJuly 9, 2022
