In May, I stopped wearing my KN95 mask. The last time I’d worn masks in earnest was in April at the airport, in museums, and on public transportation in Amsterdam. I was definitely a minority, but I didn’t mind. My goal was to avoid COVID while we vacationed in Europe. For three years I wore or carried a mask with me. Now discontinuing masks feels odd. COVID was a harsh teacher and the early days of the pandemic are still vivid.

Like everyone else, I’d heard healthcare and other frontline workers didn’t have enough PPE. Even cloth masks would help. The whole mask-making enterprise felt ludicrous and desperate. I struggled to understand: the government had no coherent plan for a pandemic? We were on our own for protection? The world seemed out of control. Anything could happen.

A Facebook friend, who’s a physician and quilter, posted a mask pattern and later I found another design online. I had lots of quilt fabric remnants and was willing to sew masks if it would help.

When Abbott Northwestern Hospital put out a call for homemade masks, I sewed floral fabrics women might like and abstract patterns men wouldn’t mind. I flannel-lined a few for softness before I realized they would be hot.

On a dark wintery day, the streets and hospital parking lot were eerie and empty when I delivered the masks. I texted the contact and rolled down the passenger window as instructed. A hospital employee took the bagful and thanked me profusely.

My sister (a respiratory therapist in a respiratory pandemic) asked for some. My homemade masks were a talisman that made her feel loved. At first, she wore a cloth mask over her one and only N95. She was expected to store the N95 in a brown paper bag so she could re-use it. Later she gave the extra cloth masks to her Ohio hospital’s Housekeeping staff, who didn’t have any protection.

I sent some to my son and future daughter-in-law, a medical resident who treated COVID patients in a Bay area ICU. She had an N95, but she could wear cloth masks away from work.

My sister suggested I give some to younger relatives who worked at a psychiatric hospital in Illinois. Although the local hospital and my sister had appreciated the homemade masks, I felt self-conscious about sending them. I worried the masks would be cringeworthy (Crazy Aunt Ellen made us these useless masks and she expects us to wear them?) but my relatives were gracious—they understood the sentiment.

Masking began with a jolt of fear, but unmasking happened gradually. I’d grown accustomed to eating out. My interactions in stores, clinics, and the pottery studio were even more distanced. The CDC’s decision to call off the emergency didn’t really figure into my thoughts. I’d concluded my risk was manageable although COVID is still out there. One day I’ll get it, but I probably won’t be seriously ill and die. Long COVID concerns me, but three years after the pandemic began, that fear no longer haunts my days. 

A KN95 mask is in my purse, but I think I’ll be OK without it.