By Alana Saltz

Enclosed is a series of five poems about my experiences being chronically ill and disabled during the COVID-19 pandemic. I have felt misunderstood by many people in my life and by society. I've gotten the message that my life and health are disposable, that I'm paranoid and overreacting, and that the pandemic is being "overblown" despite millions of people dying and developing chronic health problems.

People have been choosing momentary happiness and comfort over protecting themselves and high-risk folks from a deadly and disabling illness. I'm one of those high-risk folks, someone immunocompromised with "pre-existing conditions." It's been incredibly isolating not only to be physically cut off from support and enjoyment that used to help me cope—seeing friends and family, visiting a bookstore or cafe, road trips to see nature—but also to feel that most people don’t understand how this extended fear and isolation can even more harmfully impact those of us experiencing chronic pain, illness, and disability.

I hope to reach other chronically ill and disabled people who might relate to the experiences and feel less alone. I also want to bring new awareness about the larger issue of chronically ill and disabled people being disregarded, devalued, gaslit, and left behind during this pandemic, and in our society as a whole.

The cover image is a collage I created while attending a virtual art therapy group for people with chronic illness. I made it while thinking about the pandemic and what the world, and my home, feel like to me now.

Thank you to Suffering the Silence for the grant that made this project possible and for all of the important advocacy work they do. 

I’m so grateful for the chronic illness community and the support we offer one another. 

This is for all of us who have struggled, sacrificed, and fought for our lives during the COVID-19 pandemic; not just because of the virus, but because of an ableist world that too often ignores and invalidates our rights and experiences.

Copyright © 2021 Alana Saltz
Cover art by Alana Saltz

Pandemic Bumper Stickers: Chronic Illness Edition

“Wear a mask. Show you care.” 
The problem is they never did. 

“Pre-existing” 
doesn’t make me worthy 
of post-existing. 

#HighRiskHotGirlSummer 
Less clothes, more masks. 

Trust the CDC— 
To not give a fuck about disabled people. 

Trust the American government— 
To ignore us until they need a photo op. 

It’s not just life or death.  
#LongCOVIDExists 

Your post-pandemic fantasy 
is destroying my reality. 

This could actually be over 
if you stopped pretending it was over. 

Your “personal freedom”  
is taking mine away. 

Disabled people are not disposable. 

We have lives. 
Our lives have value.

Crossing at the End of the World

We’re outside in our living room, a virtual breeze flowing through digital trees.  

Our new friends are here, wandering around town. We don’t have to avoid them when they approach. They speak to us in comforting patterns, ask silly questions, offer tips and support. 

There’s no mention of viruses, death tolls, or fear. There’s no “underlying conditions,” no threats, no guidelines. 

Hours pass while collecting sea shells, catching bugs and fish, decorating our space. We invite friends to join us,  give them gifts, visit their homes. 

We’re on an island, our island, where we make our own rules. We’re safe and smiling, calm and warm. Bubbly music fills the air. Soft trumpets and smooth beats.  

We sink deeper into the couch, silence our phones, stay gone.

Lucid

I watch myself in an elevator,  
stepping out of metallic doors.  

I wake up, but I’m still there.  
Alive in my dream. 

I tell myself it’s okay. 
I don’t need to wake up.  

I don’t want to wake up.  

I stretch out my arms,  
see my hands move. 

There’s a door in front of me. 
I clasp the bronze knob and feel it turn. 

My heart is going fast. The world shakes, ready to dissolve.  

Don’t get up yet. I want to stay. 

Outside, I find a lavish garden party. 
Fancy linens, poofy dresses,  
floppy hats, a white tent.  
Pastries and music and people.

There are people.  

I don’t have to be scared.  
They can’t make me sick.  

I want to meet these people,  
hear their stories, be close to them. 

I move toward the party, ready 
to smile, hug, and laugh. 

Don’t wake up.  
Please don’t wake up. 

I’m back in the elevator. 
I can’t move. 

I’m surrounded by metal 
and gray.

Air

I used to get scared 
when I rolled down the window
on the freeway and felt for a moment 

like I couldn’t breathe. 

I kept it open, 
the wind twisting my hair, 
filling my chest, 
pushing against my face. 

Now the porch  
is the farthest I can travel,  
a mask  
over my nose and mouth. 

I’m afraid of air,  
the burst, the chill, 
not knowing where it’s been  
or who’s been breathing in it. 

I miss when it was all rush. 
This violence is invisible. 
I’m used to trauma  
that I can see. 

The sunlight feels strange  
on enclosed skin. 
Though the Puget Sound is miles away,
there’s a trace of salt and sea. 

It takes me to the shore, 
watching endless California waves.
Back home and safe again. 

Someday.

Alana Saltz (she/her) is a disabled writer, editor, and activist. She’s the founder and editor-in-chief of Blanket Sea, a magazine and small press showcasing chronically ill, neurodivergent, and disabled creators. Her poetry has been featured in Yes Poetry, Okay Donkey, Moonchild Magazine, Five:2:One, and more. She’s the author of three poetry chapbooks.

Follow her on social media @alanasaltz and learn more at her website, alanasaltz.com.