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July 30, 2020


To RMA SoHo, again. More blood needs to be drawn because something was unreadable in my first batch of blood. Just one vial here.


Going to the city is still the most awesome and creepy thing. No one is here at 11 a.m. on a weekday. You feel like you own it. It's a ghost town. None of this is exactly happy. It's nice to feel space in public during a pandemic, but it's tragic. And in a weird way, comforting, to know I'm not missing out on anything. Or am I? I could dance on the sidewalk all day, run and stop like a tourist as often as I want; I could really enjoy the city in wonderment without any interruption to my pace and pondering. But I only feel despair being here, in the abysmal wasteland, or anywhere in the metro area, for that matter. Life does not exist in the most over-populated zip codes. I feel loss.


That evening, my JC book group met in person for the first time since Covid hit. We were sitting in a friend's yard, far, far apart (does anyone else feel like it's exhausting to be in social situations?) and the subject of fertility came up late at night. I listened intently, fascinated by the struggles that women silently go through. I didn't say anything about myself, the past, or that day. I just strained my ears for any iota of information or sliver of something I didn't know — which is mostly everything. Still, I felt better hearing all of this unsolicited information. I felt less alone, even in my silence.