Life in New York city right now is scary—I’m not gonna lie. Last night my son dropped a heavy flash light on my toes and as the pain exploded in my brain, my first thought was: I’m not going to the hospital. If something’s broken, I guess I’ll just walk with a limp from now on.

I’ve begun to move around more carefully in the apartment. When I open tin cans, I go slowly. We can’t afford to bleed either. Our health care providers have enough to do without dealing with our own carelessness. And honestly, I don’t want to go to a hospital for a broken toe or stitches and come out with Corona.

They are predicting that NYC alone could have 10,000 deaths by the time this is all over—as many as 800 deaths a day during the apex of our curve—which is looming in the very near future, by the way. Maybe as soon as next week. So I go slow and hope for the best.

I still use the elevators in my apartment building. Maybe I shouldn’t, I don’t know. My uncle called today and advised against them. But the building’s tenants (the few that still remain) have been good about not crowding into them. They give everyone their own elevators. “I’ll wait for the next one,” we all say with as little exhalation of breath as possible while staring down at the floor, afraid to speak. Afraid to breath in anyone’s general direction. So now everyone gets their own elevator. It’s a little curtesy we’ve all adopted. Everyone except my children, apparently. Last night my daughter went down to the lobby to get an Amazon package and she told me that a woman in the elevator on the way back up was giving her funny looks. ‘Uh oh,’ I thought as my daughter proceeded to laugh at the ridiculous outfit she’d worn down to the lobby, sure that was the reason for the woman’s reaction. “Did you get in her elevator?” I asked. My daughter stopped laughing and stared at me, perplexed. “Yeah. So?” “We aren’t supposed to share elevators anymore,” I told her.

I walked the dog this morning to the playgrounds in my neighborhood. I wanted to see for myself how the city physically closed them. (Cuomo closed all playgrounds yesterday) There were padlocks and chains on the perimeter fencing and the basketball hoops were gone. The backboards and the poles were still there—just the hoops were removed. There was a tennis court at the last park. Its net was removed, but someone had dragged a short free-standing barricade-type fence into the middle to act as a net. For what, I wondered? Were they scaling the fence to get in and play until the cops chased them away? It was a strange site. Last week in central park, we walked by a playground that was not yet closed, but had a sign that warned: “Enter at your own risk. This playground has not been disinfected.” It was full of kids and haggard looking parents.

My dog is 11 pounds and exhausted from all the walking. I walk her as an excuse to walk myself, of course. I’m going to start carrying her around soon. Take her out for an “airing,” instead of a walk. Is that still considered social distancing? I don’t know. Nobody ever addresses the dog issue here in the city. We’ve all got them. And people have to walk them. Yet the only thing they ever tell us is to stay inside. Only leave for food and the pharmacy. But what about the dog? Speaking of which…. it’s time for a walk.