Homeward Bound: Grief in the Coronavirus Outbreak

One month ago, I was living in Rome.  Two weeks ago, I was laying on a beach in Ibiza.  Today, I am in Raleigh, quarantined in my room. 

The coronavirus outbreak has affected everyone in a unique way.  Businesses have closed, graduations are canceled, and doctors are working overtime on a daily basis.  For me, I was sent home from the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of studying abroad.

I have wanted to study abroad for as long as I can remember, and I’ve known it would be in Rome since I was sixteen.  The application process takes a month to complete and getting a student visa takes even longer.  I got a new credit card without foreign transaction fees, paid for an international phone plan, put my car insurance payments on hold, and spent two days deciding what to pack.  On January 7^th, I left for Rome and prayed I hadn’t forgotten anything.

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Seven of us lived in a massive apartment together, and five of us were best friends.  Every night, there was Italian music playing in our kitchen with each burner holding a pot of pasta.  My naked-David-statue-apron with a certain *ahem ahem* piece enlarged always made an appearance.  We didn’t need constant conversation to feel like we were having a good time, but we were content sitting in each other’s silence.  Mornings consisted of coffee dates and nights were for sharing curlers and eyeshadow.  Tuesdays were Bachelor watch parties, Wednesdays were for going to G Bar, and Thursdays were for packing together. 

“Who wants the hair dryer this week?”

“I have room!”  

We shared everything, refolded each other’s clothes, and sat on the suitcases until they’d zip.  Our weekend trips were extravagant, with a much larger group of friends.  There were fifteen of us (give or take a few). The boys were the entertainment and the girls were the glue.  We went skydiving in Switzerland, cruising in Amsterdam, and clubbing in Barcelona.  No matter where we were, there was always laughter and empty wine bottles.

The First Stage of Grief: Denial

We were in Morocco when the coronavirus panic ensued.  Our other two roommates texted us franticly, urging us to get checked as soon as we came home.  It was February 17^th, and back then, it was an overreaction.  All “coronavirus” meant to us was an airport screening every time we flew somewhere.  Stand behind the line with feet shoulder width apart, look straight into the thermographic camera, and wait for the person in the hazmat suit to wave you through.  Northern Italy was greatly affected by this point in time, but not Rome.  Coronavirus was another version of the Ebola outbreak of 2014, an overreaction by the media.  Or the H1N1 flu of 2009, where the effects were much less than expected.  Or the Zika outbreak of 2015, that only affected certain people.  Coronavirus was something affecting other people in other places.  We were untouchable.

And then, the scales tipped.  In that week, students in Milan and Florence were sent home from their programs.  On February 27^th, the first Rome students were pulled.  Every day, a new school was being sent home, and for two weeks, it was all we talked about. “New York schools just got pulled.” “Southern California did yesterday.”  “Clemson pulled every program in Europe.” 

Every day was filled with anxiety – panic attacks at every unread email.  Endless information spammed my phone from so many sources: my program abroad, the University of South Carolina’s president, the study abroad office, John Cabot University of Rome, the US embassy in Rome, International SOS alert system, and my parents receiving information off the American news (which was far different than what every other source was saying).  Information changed by the hour, and confirmation bias rocked us to sleep each night.  We were more concerned about being sent home than getting the virus – our adventure coming to a premature end. 

On February 29^th, I was woken up by my friends sitting on my bed in tears. 

“We have to go home,” they said. Overnight, three of them had gotten the email.

The Second Stage of Grief: Anger

This past school year at USC, I lost the passion I once had for my schoolwork and my writing. Most of the year was spent in my room trying to catch up on my work, so I had a limited social life, and stress overwhelmed me on a daily basis. When it came time to leave for Rome, I was ready for a new chapter in my life. For me, Rome was about letting go of the pressure I constantly put on myself and rediscovering what I was passionate about. It was about finally having a good semester after a series of stressful ones.

In Rome, I was truly happy.  We all were.  And we all had our own personal reasons why. In Rome, we were undeniably ourselves and accepted each other for it.  We were immersed in unfamiliarity and learned by making mistakes along the way.  We sat in class with people from all around the world and explored opinions that we’ve never heard before. We let go of the past – our mistakes and what everyone expected of us – because we were new people.  Studying abroad was about more than an “easy semester” and good Instagram pictures; it was about personal growth.  In Rome, we had a purpose. 

Studying abroad was about more than an “easy semester” and good Instagram pictures; it was about personal growth.

As the virus spread, day by day, that purpose dwindled.  Friends were being forced by their U.S. universities to return to the States, with threats of their credits not counting, and even their status at the university, if they weren’t home by a certain day.  On March 2^nd, I was the only one left in my once 18-person class.  That whole week, the sky was dark and rainy, like it was mourning our loss.  

As a last hurrah, my best friends and I visited the monuments of Rome.  The beautiful Colosseum, the Trevi Fountain, and the Basilica of San Clemente, but we didn’t value those moments because we were all so sad.  We didn’t speak.  We didn’t take pictures.  It felt like a disservice to the city to be there without appreciating it. 

The University of South Carolina was not making me leave Rome. I was a lucky one – someone whose university understood that this was American fake news. Suddenly, everyone wanted to be a Gamecock. But still, nothing would be the same from this point on. My classes were empty and my friends were leaving. What did I do to deserve this, I thought. It’s a rather selfish concept in the wake of a global pandemic; I’ll admit that now. But back then, even just three weeks ago, things were different. The World Health Organization was telling people to wash their hands, not to isolate themselves. My college in Rome, John Cabot University, was operating as normal. The Italian news was not covering the virus as heavily as the American news was. The United States had recorded only one death. President Trump didn’t seem concerned. My abroad program told us that everyone was overreacting. There were only three cases of the virus in Rome, all of which recovered. Two regions in the north prompted the level 3 status and that was attributed to the entire country of Italy (as if the virus was bad in New York and people were being forced out of Virginia). Daily life in Rome was unchanged. Piazzas were full, businesses were open, and restaurants had lines. Looking back, there are some clear issues with this, but we didn’t know what we do now.

Back then, even just three weeks ago, things were different. The World Health Organization was telling people to wash their hands, not to isolate themselves.

My daily experiences were inconsistent with what I was hearing. The U.S. news painted the whole country of Italy to be in distress when in reality, it was just another day. I was primarily keeping up with CDC and WHO updates, staying out of the news. In late February, someone sent me an article called “Italy on Lockdown,” saying the entire country was a red zone and everyone was stuck in their houses – essentially where we are now. I was shocked by the amount of misinformation in a published article, and I haven’t looked at American news the same way since.

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There were seven of us in the apartment, five of us being best friends. We didn’t spend much time with the other two girls; there were some lifestyle differences. One evening, the five of us were doing homework in the living room, and our other roommate ran in and swung the door open. It crashed against the wall and we all jolted in a panic.

“Trump is having a press conference,” she spoke quickly and exact.  “And he is restricting travel to and from Italy on Friday.  Also, the Rome airport is closing tomorrow so you won’t be able to leave Rome after then.”

I felt like I was going to throw up. 

“Okay, okay, everyone calm down and let’s figure this out,” my friend chimed in from across the room.

We opened our laptops and became more efficient than the FBI’s research team.  We pulled up news articles, social media, airline websites, flight plans to and from Rome, and the live press conference. 

President Trump spoke slowly, “Exercise increased caution when traveling to northern Italy.”  And that was it. 

“It’s just more on the Lombardy region,” we told her. “And exercising caution. Nothing’s restricted and nothing’s closed.”

She nodded and left. I wasn’t sure where she had gotten her information, but for now, I didn’t care. My dinner settled back into my stomach and I continued the paper I was writing.

She came back ten minutes later and declared, “Rome is considered a level 4 now.  I’m talking to someone watching the news in America and they just said it.  You guys better cancel all your trips because you’re not going to be able to go.  I just booked my flight home and y’all better too.”

My entire body got hot and tense, and I crossed my arms over my chest as tight as I could.  We looked into it, and once again, not true.  Regions in northern Italy were considered a level 4.  Rome was fine – still only three recovered cases.  Nothing had changed.  I let out a deep breath and settled back into the sofa, but there was something about the unnecessary rollercoaster of emotions that churned inside of me.  My teeth clenched and I was suddenly aware of the blood pumping through my temples.

The third time she came in, she started,  “Guys, my mom just called and said – ”

“Stop!”  I blurted.  “And check your information before you come in here and cause all this drama! I’m tired of you scaring us with things that aren’t true.  I don’t care if the world is ending – don’t come in here for the rest of the night.  Just let me write my paper and leave!”

“Ok.” She turned around and closed the door.  That was the last time I spoke to her.

The Third Stage of Grief: Bargaining

On March 2^nd, the email came.

“SAI has decided to suspend all programs in Italy, effective immediately.”

My worst fear and the last thing I expected had just happened.  Up until this point, U.S. universities were the ones making students go home, not their programs in Europe.  I was in the middle of filling out liability forms for the University of South Carolina. I was helping someone manipulate the fine print at the University of Tampa and editing appeals to the University of Missouri.  Our program was supposed to be the one on our side, and they cancelled on us. 

It felt like an attack.  It felt unfair and unnecessary.  It felt like they were giving up on us.  It felt like it was more about saving themselves from legal liability than doing what was best for us.  It felt like following the crowd.  It felt like the world was crashing down. It felt like I didn’t have a choice.

That day, everything changed.  I had just bought groceries.  I had a midterm the next day.  I had laundry hanging outside and dirty dishes in my room.  I called that apartment “home.”  I had a life built in Rome, and now, I had two days to leave.  My apartment was taken from me, I would never go back to campus, and there were some faces I’d never see again.

One of my classes was called “Rome Modern City.” It was an on-site class where each three-hour period, we would go to a different neighborhood and learn about its political views, socioeconomic status, and history, comparing it to other places we’d visited. I learned about overcrowding, fascist architecture, immigration, organized crime, communist social centers, and public transportation stoppages due to archeological excavation. It is the most hands-on class I’ve ever taken, and it was over. It would be online now, or the equivalent of reading essays and writing papers on them. No more teachers with accents, no more global political debates, no more students speaking Italian before class.

Almost every morning, I went to the same coffee shop and the same waitress served me.  I had “my table” and she knew my order.  I complimented her when she dyed her hair and one day, she let me leave without paying when I forgot my wallet.  That morning, she asked me if I’d be staying in Rome, and I said yes.  She grinned wide and her eyes crinkled, she gave me the receipt, and I left.  That was the last time I saw her, and I had to accept that. 

It felt like an attack.  It felt unfair and unnecessary.  It felt like they were giving up on us.

In my mind, going back to America wasn’t an option.  I had a flight from Rome to Raleigh on May 9^th and I planned to get on it.  I booked weeks of travel – first would be Spain for a week.  Barcelona, Valencia, and Ibiza.  Then Rome for a night, Lisbon for a week, Nice for a week, and Paris for a week.  In April, we already had trips to Greece and Croatia, and we’d stay in Rome between then.  Maybe it wasn’t what everyone else was doing, but we were stronger than them, braver, more cultured.  We built our home in people, not place, and we made peace with it.  It was the best-case scenario.  Classes were online and we had the freedom to travel around Europe, to places we wouldn’t have made it to. 

When things were normal, we had constantly talked about how there wasn’t enough time to go everywhere we wanted to go.

“I wish we had more time.”

“I’m going to extend my trip into the Summer.”

“School is honestly getting in the way of everything I want to do.”

“It’s crazy how we are here for four months and it still feels like we don’t have enough time.”

This was a blessing in disguise.  We dropped our suitcases off at our program’s office because we knew we’d be back, and we boarded a flight to Barcelona.

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The Fourth Stage of Grief: Depression

In Barcelona, I felt the same way that I did exploring Rome that day.  I went to the beach, the Sagrada Familia, Parque Güell, and the bunkers, but it all felt fake.  I was in one of the most beautiful places in the world, standing in front of revolutionary architecture and stunning mosaic art, and I felt nothing.  No moment of awe, no breaths taken away, no recognition of our beautiful world and how lucky I am to be in it – none of the things you are supposed to feel while traveling. 

Every day, another one of my close friends left.  Spain was filled with heartbreaking goodbyes and constantly changing normals.  Before dinnertime, we were all going to Nice together, and by the time everyone’s plate was clean, someone had booked a flight home for the next day. With each person that left, we became more aware of reality. We wouldn’t get this experience back. When coronavirus ends, we can’t go back to Europe and resume where we left off. And if we went home, we wouldn’t be together. We didn’t live in the same cities or go to the same universities, and who knows when we’d see each other again.

On March 10^th, four of us (the last ones left) arrived at our Airbnb in Ibiza. We unpacked our suitcases for the first time since we left Italy. We finally had a closet, a kitchen, and a washing machine. We went grocery shopping and walked around town.

The next day, we laid on the beach for hours.  It was one of those perfect days. The sun was hot but the breeze made it unnoticeable. The beach was nearly empty and the waves were constant. They sounded different than normal waves – they bubbled and sizzled, the smallest waves turning the loudest. Laying there, I felt a glimmer of hope, a sense that we would all be okay.

The next morning at 3 A.M., we were woken up by our phones ringing incessantly.  In my broken-REM-cycle-daze, I tried to compose myself enough to realize what was going on.  The first words I heard were a friend’s mom.  She was yelling.

“Trump is closing the borders tomorrow and you need to get on a plane now!” 

That woke me up. 

I called my parents immediately, and for the next hour we tried to figure out what was happening – reading the news, watching the press conference, checking my email, calling other people’s parents, cross-referencing their research, and looking at flights.  The best flight took 30 hours of traveling, cost $3,000, and left Ibiza in five hours. 

At 4:30 in the morning, we figured out that the borders were not closed to American citizens, but to European travelers.  There was nothing that affected us and no reason to be woken up, but this was my breaking point. 

For three weeks, I had been battling uncertainty, misinformation, and anxiety.  My days were spent trying to decipher American news to find the pieces of truth hidden between the exaggeration.  There were euphoric highs and devastating lows, and constant fluctuation between the two.  It was exhausting.  As the virus spread, people left – one by one, and loneliness grew.  This time, there were travel restrictions on Europeans, but tomorrow, it’ll be Americans.  Or the next day.  Or the next day.  Or the next day.  Italy’s borders had already closed, so going back wasn’t an option, and there were rumors of Spain’s borders closing in the coming week.  If all of this happened in three weeks, I knew I couldn’t last eight more.

My days were spent trying to decipher American news to find the pieces of truth hidden between the exaggeration.  There were euphoric highs and devastating lows, and constant fluctuation between the two. 

That morning, I booked my flight home.  We all did.  We realized that we weren’t giving up, because we fought as hard as we could.  It was about choosing which battles to fight and knowing when the war was over.  I planned to travel Europe for eight weeks trying to fill a hole that formed when my program ended.  I would be spending thousands of dollars searching for the happiness I had a month earlier, and I wouldn’t find it.  No amount of travel was going to recreate the feeling of cooking in our kitchen together, singing “La Vie en Rose.”  Or shopping from the same cashier who gave us discounts if we laughed at his jokes. Or the rush of catching the moving tram, and the thrill of not getting caught when we didn’t have a ticket. We weren’t there to travel, but to study abroad, and that was over.

On March 14^th, I started my journey home. Thirty-five hours later, I pulled up to my house, walked to my room, and I have been there ever since.

The Fifth Stage of Grief: Acceptance

I will start by saying that I have not fully accepted the reality yet.  There are pieces of me still angry and bargaining, and pieces stuck on the beach in Ibiza – the last good day I’ve had in a while.  But I’m working on it.

I’ve learned to let go of things I can’t control.  Two of my suitcases are still sitting in the office in Rome.  Inside them are all of my clothes, shoes, toiletries, souvenirs, and even my books and notes for school.  I will not get these back for months, because as long as the people in Italy are quarantined, there is no one to ship them.  When they get shipped, they might have to be fumigated or sit in government holding for two weeks.  I don’t know.  All of my stuff is stuck in Rome, and I am choosing to laugh about it.

I am losing hundreds of dollars on flights and living accommodations that I’ve already booked for the remainder of the semester.  Some companies are being generous with refunds.  Some aren’t.  Not to mention the thousands of dollars that my program cost (including rent for four months and excursions we never went on), and the unknown refunds I’ll be getting months from now.  It’s money that’s already gone, and I have to deal with that.

I have been trying to look at the positives.  All of last year, I prayed that time would stop for just a moment so I’d be able to rest.  Every part of my life moves so fast and I feel like I’m always playing catch-up.  In a way, the world stopped, and I’ve been trying to make the most of my time before the chaos resumes.  

The earth is finally getting time to heal.  Air quality in China and Italy is improving, carbon dioxide emissions have decreased, smog is lifting, and the waters of Venice are finally clear again, with swans swimming through the canals.  Humans have done enough to destroy our earth and now, she is getting a chance to breathe (click here for more about climate change).  

This virus doesn’t target race, religion, sexual orientation, or socioeconomic status, so finally, the boundaries we’ve built around each other are breaking down and people are coming together.  Some grocery stores are opening early for the elderly, so they can shop in peace and get what they need.  The CEO of Delta is giving up his salary for the year to help mitigate layoffs.  Universities are sharing resources, conglomerates are offering their services for free, and there is a drive towards supporting small businesses.  On a much more personal note, human contact is desirable.  People miss each other – their family, friends, and the stranger that sits next to them at work.  There is now value in something as simple as a hug or a handshake. 

In my lifetime, I have never seen the whole world face the same challenge.  I have never seen the world come together to fight for one cause.  I have never seen human conflict – racism, sexism, homophobia, political views, classism, religious discrimination, misogyny, transphobia, xenophobia, ableism – come to a halt, for even a moment, so people could do something together.

In my lifetime, I have never seen human conflict – racism, sexism, homophobia, political views, classism, religious discrimination, misogyny, transphobia, xenophobia, ableism – come to a halt, for even a moment, so people could do something together.

We are all facing the same challenge.  And we can only face it together.  We have all lost, whether it be jobs, graduations, proms, weddings, or a semester abroad.  But we’ve also gained a lot.  Laura Kelly Fanucci said, “When this is over, may we never again take for granted a handshake with a stranger, full shelves at the store, conversations with neighbors, a crowded theatre, Friday night out, the taste of communion, a routine checkup, the school rush each morning, coffee with a friend, the stadium roaring, each deep breath, a boring Tuesday, life itself.  When this ends, may we find that we have become more like the people we wanted to be, we were called to be, we hoped to be, and may we stay that way – better for each other because of the worst.”  In other words, may we rediscover what it means to be human…to have survived.

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