Stirring, J turned to his side and pulled me in close. Eyes burned and nostrils flared as I tried to forget this would be the last time we'd hug for another 3 weeks. My attempts to be mindful and in-the-moment failed as I recalled the previous night's discussion. "So how long are you going to self-quarantine for, M?" "Definitely for the week I'm rounding. And... since I'll probably end up seeing COVID patients, probably for another 2 weeks after that." "... makes sense."
Staring at J's outline on Facetime, all I could make out was the reflection of his phone's screen in his glasses. This was how we'd been communicating while he was in quarantine - in the same house but never physically crossing paths. To J's credit, as soon as I instructed him to self-isolate, he transformed our master bedroom into a little apartment, complete with a kitchenette and command center so he could continue to work remotely/play FIFA on Xbox without leaving the bed. Since I arrived home, I'd been placing meals outside the slider to our bedroom and waving at him through windows or from 12 feet away.  Not a single complaint. Not one effort to "break" any rules. He had been a perfect, 100% compliant patient.  But the cracks were starting to show.