Two weeks ago I bought a case of 1.5 liter alkaline water bottles. My rational mind isn’t sure why I need water bottles in case of a quarantine. I’ll finish the water long before the pipes break down from this (unless they can burst from collective anxiety).

In fact, I finished them within the week. About one week before my home city, Philadelphia, even recorded its first case.

A few days later I stopped at Whole Foods for four cans of quartered artichoke hearts. This one made a little more sense. If it is difficult to go to the grocery store or get produce, I want to have some vegetable on hand to support my liver. 

At the farmer’s market that weekend I bought enough chicken bones and feet for eight weeks of stock. That made sense. The farmer may struggle to get into the city or the market may be closed in the coming weeks. And I will definitely eat the stock at some point. 

Monday morning my coworker and I joked over lunch about being quarantined to work from home sometime soon. On Wednesday our office’s county, Montgomery Country, confirmed it had the most cases of the virus in the state. We were given an indefinite mandatory work from home order that afternoon.

Afterwards I stopped at Wegmans expecting to amp up my quarantine doomsday supply. Frozen vegetables seemed like a good idea, because artichoke chicken soup sounds terrible. The brightly lit cold cabinets were filled with roots, leaves, and stalks. 

First up, sweet potatoes. The white plastic bag with a picture of a neatly cut orange potato will fit perfectly in my freezer. Before placing it in my cart I read the back label. Ingredients: Sweet potatoes.

Wait.

I’m not paying for something wrapped in plastic that I could purchase over in produce. This is not the end of the world. There are environmental consequences that don’t go away with a corona crisis.

An hour later and my cart had two items. Bulk Himalayan pink salt (I prefer Celtic, but I keep forgetting to get the brand I like at Whole Foods, so I decided to settle) and a vegan gluten-free sugar-free fair trade chocolate bar (non-gmo and organic are implied by the rest of that statement). The chocolate isn’t for some special moment during the impending social distancing never leaving my house whatever we call what is going on. It’s to quell my nerves as I silently savor it in the safety of my car.

That night I decided to get more serious about the upcoming whatever. It’s likely that at some point I will be quarantined to my house. Food isn’t an issue. The co-op will likely remain open like the grocery stores in already quarantined New Rochelle are. However, there must be household items I’m missing. 

I make a list:

Hand sanitizer

Laundry detergent

Body soap

Brillo pads

Pur water filters

Aside from hand sanitizer it’s mostly a list of supplies I’ve kicked down the road for the past month or two. Apparently coronavirus is the end of the household basics road. 

Thursday I text my roommates to see if they need anything from Walmart. I add their requests of Christmas lights (it’s nearly spring and our backyard is going to be lit!) and firewood (lit!).

After an anxious day counting my coworker’s bodily expressions (John coughed twice, Tim sneezed once, Staci burped, but I don’t think that counts as corona deadly, Lance farted thrice, which isn’t corona deadly, but is funny) I drive straight to the Walmart that’s so close to my office that I can see it from our kitchen window. A line of cars wait to turn out of the lot as I turn in. As I approach the building I notice that the usually empty rows are lined with cars. Lucky for me a spot opens up near the front door.

As the sliding doors silently allow me to enter I see a scattered crowd of people slowly crawling their carts in and out of aisles. A wiry short haired woman softly apologizes to an employee as she squeezes past him. I make my way around her to grab a six pack of Bounty mega rolls from the mostly empty shelves. 

There’s no hand sanitizer (duh). There’s plenty of brillo pads. Apparently that isn’t on everyone’s two to infinite weeks of social distancing list. Then again, this was more of an excuse to do something about the one next to my sink that is brewing enough old egg and bacteria to create COVID-20 than prepare to clean charred pots.

Laundry detergent and body soap can wait. Walmart doesn’t carry the eco-brands and again, there will be life to live after this.

No one sells Christmas lights this time of year. The best option were rope lights who’s box portrayed their use with a chic back-lit sink, but the place I’m living isn’t really a back-lit sink kind of place. 

Apparently firewood and Pur water filters aren’t popular with the doomsday preppers either. I buy two boxes of each leaving plenty on the shelf for the next person who plans to drink filtered tap water during their social distancing fire pit party.

After unloading the bounty into my house took an existential weight off my back. We are safe and ready to face whatever comes next.

My therapist texted me that we’d have to meet remotely the next morning.

He calls at 730 A.M. on the dot. As like everyone else the first thing he brings up is the virus. He’s concerned that my office isn’t closed yet, given the county has the highest infection rate in the state. He promises to send me a Sam Harris podcast and an article from the Atlantic about how we must start social distancing if we want to live. Then we talk for an hour about stuff unrelated to the virus (for real!).

The conversation woke me up that it is not the time to go into the office. And that I need more vegetables in my freezer. I message my team on slack that I’ll be working from home for the day then grab my reusable bags as I walk out the door to the co-op. 

The crust is still crumbling off the eyes of the grocery store as I walk in. Unlike Walmart or Whole Foods most of the shelves are full and only a handful of people peruse the aisles. I stock up on two weeks of celery, kale, potatoes, carrots and parsley for my soup and throw lemons and ginger in my cart in case I need to fix a soothing anti-inflammatory tea. A coupon for four dollars off herbal supplements let’s me feel okay re-upping my supply of Valerian and Healthy Liver tinctures. 

In the bulk aisle a long haired man in a denim jacket fills a glass jar with pinto beans. I fill my reusable cotton sacks with enough rice and lentils to share with my roommates. Our backyard fire pit, filtered water, and rice and lentil party is going to be poppin’!

At home I put most of the produce in the freezer and store the bulk food in half-gallon mason jars. I don’t know what the future will hold, but I do feel okay. I have enough food to live as I usually do if I’m confined to my house for a week or two. I’m confident that even if my city is forced to social distance (a.k.a quarantined) that it will not get to the point where I am ever without food or water. 

Now that I am prepared, I am bracing to support my at risk neighbors, family, and friends should things escalate. My grandpa’s voice, which carries a warm rasp from decades of chomping cigars, cracks as I called to offer to drive the two hours to supply him with groceries or medications should he need it. One weekend morning I sat in the natural light of pouring into my kitchen, beneath the small tree we oddly keep potted on the round wooden dining table, tearing pages from a large moleskin notebook to write letters in bold sharpie offering support to my neighbors. It’s not that a printer wouldn’t have worked, it’s that I don’t have a printer in my house. 

We cannot know what these coming weeks will bring. If we are lucky, the present mental health crisis will not be proceeded by a physical health crisis. If not, then we must be prepared to support our neighbors, family, and friends with any extra time, energy, or money we have.

In the meantime, my roommates and I are going to pass the time talking around the fire.