I called Ron on his old push button landline phone with TV shows murmuring in the background. He welcomed the personal connection and break with social isolation. Despite our age, gender and financial differences; we had been friends for several years and regularly spoke on the phone. Ron’s social isolation was partially due to the lack of disposable income and partially due to the pandemic. No disposable income means no computer, no internet, no credit card, no cell phone, no shopping assistance, no Netflix. His pandemic human contact was limited to phone calls and his entertainment was limited to network TV.

During the pandemic, I continued my regular phone calls to Ron, but now, each phone call revealed a new crisis. A local grocery store no longer allowed its employees to provide free shopping for Ron. His pharmacy would not deliver his medications without a credit card, which he did not have. The person who had been taking his clothes to the laundromat, stopped coming to pick up his clothes, and he washed them in his kitchen sink. Ron’s small church could no longer afford to keep its doors open or to provide online services, and Ron lost access to the faith community he had attended for years. His walls were closing in.

Then, immediately at the beginning of one phone call, with fear in his voice, Ron told me, “I got it. I got Covid.” He had tested positive for Covid. He suffered no outward symptoms, but he had to quarantine. As an elderly, man of color with several major underlying medical conditions, Ron was high risk. A hard life had taught Ron resiliency and resourcefulness, but testing Covid positive brought a new fear. His fear was intensified by not knowing how he had caught the virus if he had had no physical interaction with other people. He asked what had he done wrong?

Ron spoke of his medical appointments and appeared to have a good relationship with his doctor. His doctor sent a social worker to help Ron establish a support system, but other than verifying his medical appointments and medications, and setting him up for Meals on Wheels, Ron thought the social worker provided little assistance. Somehow she irritated him.

Our calls continued to reveal Ron’s declining situation. After quarantining, Ron suffered from increased anxiety, a frequent lingering health symptom of Covid long haulers. The medication Ron took for his anxiety affected his legs, and he could no longer safely drive. With a lack of structure in his daily routine, Ron started to show confusion, and missed timely payment of some important bills, like his water bill and his Medicare pharmaceutical insurance premium. Like many poor people, Ron did not have a checking account, and used money orders purchased at a Western Union to pay his bills. When he could no longer drive, Ron needed to find and pay a driver to take him to the Western Union to pay his bills, an additional complication, expense and personal physical contact he could not afford.

When Covid vaccinations became available, I again called to see if Ron had scheduled an appointment for the shot. Without a computer or internet access, Ron did not know how to schedule an appointment or who to call for his Covid shots. He was short tempered at my suggestions and more concerned about paying his bills than with scheduling a shot. He grew agitated, said he was too upset to talk, and hung up on me. The next day, he called back to apologize.

Friendship is a bridge between people. If Ron had not apologized would the bridge have been broken and the friendship ended? Would I have been insulted? Should I have been insulted? I don’t think so. The pandemic put us all under stress. Maybe I would not have called him back for a while, while waiting for him to apologize. Phone lines work both ways. He and I had had disagreements before and maintained the bridge between us. I think we would have maintained the bridge and friendship even if he had not apologized. But, I don’t have to go there because he did call back to apologize.

Living several hours away, I could listen and offer suggestions, but I could not physically drive him when he needed transportation. I gave his pharmacy my credit card number so they would deliver his medications, and navigated him and the insurance company over the phone through reinstatement of his medical insurance. Ron asked me to call his son who lived several hours away, and his son willingly opened a bank account to pay his dad’s bills and take control of his cash flow. I never openly questioned why the father and son could not resolve this issue without my intervention, but honored Ron’s request. I was careful to not impose on the father/son relationship. My role was to help solve the problem. Ron told me other people began to contact him to offer assistance. Ron’s friends created a food network for him and brought him home cooked meals on a regular basis. People scheduled his Covid shots for him and drove him to his vaccination appointments.

At the beginning of the pandemic, public service announcements proclaimed, “We’re all in this together”. As pandemic inequalities were exposed, that message fell out of favor. Instead, we can modify the saying, “It takes a village to raise a child” to “We can become each other’s village.” Ron’s small community became his village. The village or community can’t solve the pandemic, but it can help solve one person’s problems of daily living during the pandemic. Medical professionals are the persons who should address and manage the traumatic and negative emotions involved with prolonged stress of the pandemic. But we, as friends and neighbors, can provide social support, social contact, transportation and meals. We are the village.

Equity remains elusive. Certainly, Ron remains vulnerable. It’s not just about science. It’s about people. Ron’s cure for the virus of social isolation depended on human compassion and kindness. People stepped forward to help him with his real life basic needs. People who care cured Ron’s virus of social isolation, and people who care will be the inoculation for our next crisis.

Artist has chosen to remain anonymous.