3B
Friday, March 27, 2020 // The Statement
3B
T
he dark night sky outside
filled the window of my studio
apartment, but my nerves awoke
me with a jolt of panic at 5 a.m. It was
March 20 in Melbourne, Australia, and
an anxious pit formed in my stomach
as I got ready to hop on a flight to travel
back to the United States. I prepared my
N95 face masks, tupperware of sanitizing
wipes, hand sanitizer and latex gloves for
my journey. I watched my last Melbourne
sunrise through my window, the usually-
hostile Australian sun diminishing into a
soft, orange glow like a halo around the
Melbourne skyline.
Just a week ago, the Australian sun
shone through that same window of my
studio apartment, pleasantly warming
up my cheeks until I slowly woke up. It
was 7 a.m. on Friday the 13th, and I felt
the nerves setting in as I pushed my bed
sheets off my body. I stretched my torso
across the gap between my bed and my
desk, anxiously reaching for my phone
and clicking on my email app.
“[UPDATE] -- CGIS Winter 2020
Programs” read the subject line to a new
email in my inbox.
The words were ominous and sunk
heavy in my mind. I took a deep breath
and clicked the email. As my eyes perused
the bright screen, they felt sandy from
exhaustion. Then, in bold letters: “You
must return to the United States by March
20, 2020.” I kept looking for the words
“but” or “exception,” but I couldn’t find
them anywhere.
A few days before the news that I had to
leave entered my inbox or thoughts, I was
living a slow-paced life in Melbourne. I was
taking three classes at the University of
Melbourne about subjects I actually found
interesting and the coursework was not
overwhelming. In just a short few weeks,
I had met enough people that whenever
I walked through campus I bumped into
someone I knew. My evenings consisted of
sitting on benches in grassy park squares,
basking in the sun to make up for the
Vitamin D I had lost from being at home
on the East Coast of the U.S. for too long
during winter. I could understand Aussie
slang well, but I was still learning and
I indulged in at least two cups of coffee
per day (Melbourne is known for their
amazing coffee). I was preparing to go to
surf camp with my friends at Lorne Beach,
a little, surfer, hippy town on Great Ocean
Road.
After receiving the news that I had to
return home, it felt surreal walking along
the sunny streets of Melbourne, the cool
breeze hitting my warm and flushed
face. It felt like I was sleepwalking. My
brain couldn’t process that I would have
to leave Australia in a week’s time. I felt
an unnamed emotion — fear and anxiety
mixed with anger — hitting me so abruptly
that I became dizzy from the impact.
My anxiety took over as I thought
about the impact — on myself and others
— if I were to contract COVID-19. There
are currently fewer cases in the entire
country of Australia of COVID-19 than
there are in New York state. To get home,
I would have to go through three airports
and spend a total minimum of 24 hours
traveling, including 18 hours on a plane.
In the U.S., I would automatically join the
shared mindset of panic and worry, not to
mention I would be living in a home where
a family member of mine recently suffered
from a pulmonary embolism, a condition
that increases risk for those who contract
COVID-19.
Even more so, as I read that email
in Australia, one thought came to the
forefront of my mind: It’s been a blessing
being far away from the U.S. I watched
from halfway across the world as the U.S.
fumbled with the outbreak of the new
virus: clumsily mishandling COVID-19
tests, having lax travel restriction policies
and a president who ignores the warnings
of public health officials. I watched as the
U.S. slowly crumbled under the hands of
this pandemic.
The mental toll of the news was
extremely difficult. I felt exhausted at
every second of the day for a week, my
eyes perpetually brimmed with tears that
would spill onto my cheeks as I explained
to my new Aussie friends why I had to go.
Every morning that I walked to class, I
would look around the beautiful city I’d
come to love, watching the people walk
by the street and giggling at the thought
of the funny lingo and unnecessary
abbreviations they use.
While living in Australia, the pandemic,
to me, only existed on social media and
headlines. COVID-19 did not dominate
everyday conversations yet; it was more
of an afterthought. The government
of Australia was preparing for the
pandemic
from
its
inception,
with
travel restrictions and monitoring border
control. I felt like everything was going
to be OK and that I had some control over
the situation. I wasn’t afraid to look at
numbers or projections, and I knew that
if I were to experience symptoms, I would
be able to get a test. Panic-buying toilet
paper and other goods was still happening
in Australia — there wasn’t a complete
detachment of what the world was dealing
with — but I still felt safer in Melbourne
than back home in the U.S.
The stark reality in the U.S. and around
the world was very different. As of March
25, there are over 50,000 cases of COVID-
19 and 700 deaths related to COVID-19 in
the U.S. Globally, there have been tens of
thousands of COVID-19 related deaths,
with that number climbing.
Reaching out to the University of
Michigan for answers and support proved
moot. The feeling of not having control
came back again — the familiar feeling
that I can walk up the door to President
Schlissel’s home, knock on it, scream my
anxiety and grievances in his face and still
not be heard.
“Get out by March 20,” they said. Then,
a generic list of our “next steps,” including
booking a ticket and notifying our parents
and a blurb telling us we should contact
the institution we were currently studying
at to determine an academic plan. It was
business-like, transactional and cold,
completely neglecting the fact that I
might need time and space to breathe and
genuine mental and emotional support
to guide me through this process. I was
left to strategize my exit plan with only
my peers and whatever information our
parents could gather, which was not much.
It did not seem to cross the minds of
those in power at the University that
traveling halfway across the world during
a global pandemic might be as mentally
taxing as it is financially taxing.
The University made me feel as if I was
more of a liability to them than a student
they cared about being safe, healthy and
mentally-well — receiving information
when it’s too late, giving me the same
cookie-cutter
responses
and,
most
importantly, not making me feel like my
voice or concerns were being heard.
Even though I landed in New York City
less than a week ago, there is an incredible
sense of fear and panic that is constantly
in the back of my mind. After enduring a
16 hour flight to Los Angeles International
Airport, my first stop back in the U.S., I
faced no screening — no one asked me any
questions, no one checked if I had a fever or
a dry cough. I was released into the empty
airport, except for the people also trying
to get home. I boarded a desolate flight to
New York City, the epicenter of COVID-19
in the U.S. When I landed, I again faced
no questions or recommendations to self-
isolate for two weeks.
I
fear
the
possibility
of
having
contracted the virus while traveling,
that I might spread the virus, that I am
an asymptomatic carrier and will add
to the problem and, even worse, that if I
develop symptoms, I will not be able to
get the treatment that I need or even a test
due to limited resources. Though there are
signs of spring in the trees and bushes, the
New York City streets and roads are barren
from human life. Even though I have not
seen anyone outside my own family since
I’ve landed, I can still sense the mass panic
hanging heavy in the frigid air. The once
bustling streets in the city that never sleeps
are empty and it’s a terrifying contrast to
the sun-filled and easy-going atmosphere I
was in not too long ago.
Now, I struggle to find out what my
academic schedule will look like my senior
year of college given the circumstances and
new “Pass/No Record-COVID” grading
system, what the financial impacts of this
pandemic will be on my education and
whether or not, when I graduate next year,
there will be a job waiting for me. The future
is uncertain and up in the air as the world is
at a standstill. I can’t help scrolling through
my camera roll on my phone at least once
a day to look at pictures of the Melbourne
skyline pierced with shiny skyscrapers or
the hilly landscape of the countryside. I
think of the budding friendships that were
cut short and the missed adventures at surf
camp. While I am grateful to be home safe,
I can’t help but think of what would have
probably been the best four months of my
life.
Isabelle Hasslund is a junior studying
Music
in
SMTD
and
Ecology
and
Evolutionary Biology in LSA. She can be
reached at hasslund@umich.edu.
BY ISABELLE HASSLUND, STATEMENT CONTRIBUTOR
ILLUSTRATION BY LAUREN KUZEE
Coming home during a global pandemic