Pandemic Motherhood Diary, Entry 38: The Man Who Failed to Act on COVID is Back

On Election Day in 2016,  Trump versus Clinton, I went to sleep instead of waiting to see who won. It was around 6 a.m. when I learned that Trump had won. Fast forward to this year’s election, and once again, I chose to go to sleep, and again at 6 a.m. I learned Trump had won…again. I couldn’t fight the sadness that set in. To think the same man who had failed to act during the start of a life-altering pandemic was going to be the president one more time paralyzed me.

I lay in bed staring at the ceiling while my boys were asleep. My husband was off to work, where he would receive an email reminding staffers to push through and remain positive. For many of us, this would become the collective messaging going forward. “Remain positive.” “We are in this together.” It was as if we were all in mourning. As if we were all experiencing a terminal illness and just needed to keep the faith that we were going to pull through. I don’t recall a presidency feeling like this in my lifetime.

Some of us didn’t get amnesia following his first presidency or his failed second time running accompanied by a failed coup. Some simply didn’t survive. Hundreds of thousands of people died from the spread of COVID-19 and its effects simply because of denial and mismanagement. This is the same man who suggested injecting bleach to combat the virus. Now, after years of evidence of how to prevent and treat COVID, we are looking at the possibility of regressing. With known anti-vaxxer and COVID-19 denier Robert F. Kennedy Jr. claiming he was promised control of public health agencies, many of us are feeling an added layer of dread.

So, what does this presidency mean for someone like me? 

In December 2019, I was swarmed by a team of nurses and doctors readying me for an emergency C-section. My son’s heartbeat was fluctuating, and he needed to be delivered immediately and safely. I brought a child into this world with optimism, joy, and the determination to make his life better with each year of his life. I had no idea that what he was ushered into would morph into a pandemic and looming dominoes of added threats.

When the pandemic started, it was immediately evident that racial inequity played a role in who would be the most vulnerable. It increased the scope of health disparities affecting Black people, including the maternal crisis. They experienced an increase in maternal deaths during the pandemic. Even now, Black and Hispanic communities are still the most at risk of increased hospitalizations, long-COVID, and deaths. In addition, they were facing increased risk of losing Medicaid after COVID emergency efforts ended. Now, unless someone has been intentionally avoiding the news during this election cycle, Medicaid is on the chopping block for the Trump administration. I can only imagine the added fear and destruction this would cause so many Black and brown families. 

The least I could have hoped for is a leader who would ensure access to vaccinations. I could hope that every effort to combat the virus wouldn’t be undone. That every newfound aspect of normalcy wouldn’t be made dimmer in a world that has been underneath a storm cloud for the last four years. Finding joy in a pandemic has been a chore. Finding joy in a pandemic with an aggressive, ill-intentioned government is a load I’m too tired to carry. 

I’m aware that being Black automatically means I’m gifted with resilience. My life is made harder against my will. I either accept the resilience or sink. Then there’s being a Black woman, which comes with an added layer of strength you are automatically assumed to possess. You’re invincible. You’re a superhero whether you want to be or not. For my family, I have been that. For myself, I have been that. Nevertheless, it would be nice to let the cape rest sometimes. It would be nice to not feel fear all of the time.

As these days go by and this year nears its end, I want to try to enjoy it. Despite the cloud over my favorite time of year, I’m still putting up early Christmas decor and looking forward to lights galore. I don’t know what these next four years are going to bring. I don’t know how much resilience I’ll need to spare. My hope is that we at least get through without more grief and still have something to look forward to. That we aren’t all made more vulnerable than we already are. That my sons and every person that is afraid right now has a future that is about more than just survival.

Melissa Menny is an author with a Bachelor of Arts degree in Journalism. She is a poet and a writer in all aspects. When she is not working, she enjoys painting, music, and spending time with her husband and two sons.

This is the most recent in a series of essays about raising young children in the COVID era. Read entry 37 here.