My husband travels to another province for work. Here's how we're coping with COVID-19

I can hear him down there puttering around, throwing logs in the wood stove, getting back into the groove of being home after four long weeks away. There he'll stay, a noisy ghost, home again, but not quite, until we're satisfied he's not carrying the virus.

This means that up until this rotation, Kent has remained downstairs for the full 14 days.

A new report on the protocol of testing on Day 7 has shown that positive cases in N.L. are being found before Day 8, which offers us some potential COVID-free breathing room. But even that comes with some caveats that tell us that a negative test on Day 7 shows a reduced risk, but not zero risk.

Still, technically, he could be sitting next to me on the couch from Day 1, sleeping upstairs and eating dinner with the family. Even better, doing the cooking and cleaning. The guidelines around rotational workers allow that.

But being permitted to do something, and having that be the safest choice, aren't the same.

I imagine the coronavirus as an invisible mosquito bouncing against a series of metaphorical screens installed by public health. Entry point checks, self-isolation, masks, social distancing, limiting crowd sizes and diligent handwashing are all screens.

It all comes down to travel

Travel is how coronavirus gets here and how my husband travels. While preventing community spread with all these screens is the government's job, protecting myself and our family is my job.

The definition of a close contact is someone you have spent time with, in close proximity, during the incubation period. It's not the person you walked by briefly with six feet between you while you were both wearing masks.

Close contacts are most likely to be the very last people who want you to get sick: your family. If he gets sick, we get sick. It's that simple. If I get sick, I'm at risk for serious disease due to pre-existing health factors. We can't risk that.

I do not judge those who follow the rotational worker guidelines. I completely understand how much of a relief this is for some families to be allowed to be together, to get parenting help after a period of being alone, to have that emotional and physical connection with the one you love. That's the part that's so very difficult for us.

But a positive case has been identified at his work site recently (and diligently handled and spread prevented) so the risk, even if small, exists and it's one we're not willing to take.

We handle it with humour

I'm certain that 10 years ago when the children were little and I did not have risk factors I have now, we would do things differently. I also have no doubt that the current regulations do not significantly increase risk of spread outside the home. Every family must do what fits their lives best. This was a difficult decision to make, and it's hard to live this way.

So how do we handle the strain? Humour, mainly.

While preventing community spread with all these screens is the government's job, protecting myself and our family is my job.

We call him the dungeon dweller, blow hello kisses across great distances, give him lists of things to do that are solitary — like ordering things online and installing winter tires on the car — and count down the days for the day of the Day 7 test results now to give us a sense of relief.

We also remember to appreciate that he does have work when many have lost employment income. These are financially worrisome times so every rotation is a gift. In addition, we assign extra value to the lessons we learned during the shutdown and really are grateful for that extra time together prior to him getting back on the rotation schedule.

Eventually a negative test around Day 8 or 9 (hopefully) will give him more freedom but until that full two weeks has passed I don't quite feel safe. And feeling safe is as valuable as being safe. Reduced risk isn't no risk and the only way to be sure is a full 14 days of self-isolation.

Yet we still get excited on "Flyday." The "wheels up" texts arriving from a spouse finally free from a long, hard stint at a remote location is exciting. A happy ending to that rotation's story.

But for us there is a strange delayed denouement, a mix of disappointment and relief despite knowing it's a necessary choice.

So our Flyday isn't the neatly wrapped happy ending a good story calls for, but we believe that we're doing this for the greater benefit of our family. I work upstairs, he primarily stays down as we traverse this really strange reality that was thrust upon all of us and that we chose to navigate a bit differently.

I do believe that one day things will return to normal and we can greet each other in a regular embrace with a big, guaranteed-COVID-free kiss when he arrives home.

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That there will be a time in the not-too-distant future when he is less like a phantom in the basement, who flits through our upstairs living space quickly when he has to but otherwise stays away, until we know for sure the real spectre that haunts our lives, COVID-19, is most assuredly not down there with him.

Until then we do what works best for our family's peace of mind, and most importantly, our health.

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