How Will We Remember the COVID-19 Quarantine of 2020?

I feel like I am living in a movie. As a Canadian, the level of government intervention that has come along with the COVID-19 outbreak feels completely unreal and impossible. The province of Ontario has declared a state of emergency, and others are certain to follow suit. Restaurants, stores, and other businesses have shut down; organized public events with more than 50 participants are prohibited; and our national borders are closed.  

Perhaps the strangest part of this experience is how these changes affect everyone. We are all being told to practice social distancing. We are all being restricted, not only from travelling, but also from our regular activities—things we never even thought about before, things we just did. And we are all huddled at home, many of us working remotely, many biting our fingernails and wondering what comes next.

I can’t help but wonder: How will we look back on this time in one year? In five years? Ten?

As of now, I foresee two possible futures.

In the first, “the COVID-19 Quarantine of 2020” has become a chapter that we’ve filed away as a strange part of our history. The topic pops up here and there, perhaps even as the answer to a Jeopardy! clue: “In March 2020, the NBA, MLB, and NFL all paused their seasons in response to this international crisis.” Or perhaps, if we’re lucky: “The response to this international health crisis in 2020 is projected to have saved thousands of lives.”

In this first vision of the future, COVID-19 is something that most of us actually sort of enjoy remembering—but only because we’ve gained so much distance from it. We don’t trouble ourselves with remembering the facts or details. (For example: Was the outbreak more severe in Italy, or Iran? Only those who were in one of those countries at the time will recall.) Our personal memories of these events will become more important to us than anything else.

“I remember exactly where I was when Trudeau said, ‘If you’re abroad, it’s time for you to come home,’” one Canadian will say.

Their companion will wait patiently, nodding (but not actually listening) as the first person tells their story. As soon as it seems appropriate, the companion will jump in.

“Yes,” they will say. “We brought the kids with us to the grocery store the day he made that announcement, and it took us over two hours to shop and get through the line. There was a man in front of us with a cart full of toilet paper and canned goods, and he nearly started a fist fight with another customer.”

Though I see this premonition clearly, I know it’s not as certain as it feels. This vision, after all, assumes that the troubles of today will all go away. It assumes that our self-isolation will be effective in “flattening the curve” and preventing further crisis. The healthcare system will never be overburdened; the death toll will never skyrocket. In time, the economy will recover. Everything will turn out okay, and we’ll get to look back on this time as nothing but a blip—a strange blip, no doubt, but a blip nonetheless. In a way, the experience will actually unite us. It will become just another thing that sets us apart from the younger cohorts that come next. “Oh, you’re too young to remember COVID-19,” we’ll say. “But I remember everything about it . . .”

The first version of the future is terribly familiar and therefore easy to imagine. It fits the mould of how people tend to think about other major events in recent memory—though only the ones that didn’t actually touch their lives. 9/11 comes to mind, of course, as do the 2015 Paris attacks and the 2018 Toronto van attack.

On the other hand, my second prediction for the future is entirely novel. In this version of events, we do not recover. Life does not go on as it always has. Many people die, and few have the luxury of seeing their lives untouched. The economy doesn’t recover—it changes entirely. The way we move through the world changes, too. The freedoms that we’re so used to having are never entirely restored. The safety, stability, and consistency of everyday life doesn’t return. Everything changes.

It’s a hazy vision, mostly because it’s far more difficult to imagine than the first. It feels foreign and unreal; as I type it out, I can’t help but notice that it reads like the work of an alarmist, paranoid mind.

I’d like to make myself believe that the first vision of the future is inevitable, the second impossible. This would be much easier than acknowledging the truth: that our actions today will have a real impact on what tomorrow looks like.

Like many others, I’ve been grappling with the stress and uncertainty that have come along with self-isolation. I have tried to focus on keeping my thoughts positive and my outlook optimistic. After much thought, here’s what I’ve decided (for now): I can’t let my fear of the second outcome consume me, but I have to let it motivate me to make the right choices. It’s up to everyone to decide which version of the future awaits us . . . and that means it’s up to me.

Hope is not some elusive thing beyond my reach. Hope is in my hands—which, in case you were wondering, are squeaky clean.