Hao Lan Gong

Almost four years ago, my husband was taken from me in Wuhan, China. He was one of the first to fall ill with SARS-CoV-2. At first, we thought it was just a bad flu. But soon his condition worsened, and his lungs collapsed. The doctors did what they could, but it wasn’t enough. I never saw him again after the ambulance took him.

I was quarantined immediately, my home sealed off. Alone, I could only wait. It was the worst time of my life. I kept wondering if I had unknowingly infected him, though I had no symptoms. Food was delivered, and after two weeks, my quarantine ended. But going outside was tightly controlled. Wuhan had become a ghost city.

For two months, Wuhan was locked down—no buses, no trains, no flights. We had been running a small stall at Huanan Market, selling fish. It was our livelihood. But when they linked the virus to the market, everything shut down. They said the virus might have come from wild animals, but no one was sure. We still don’t have all the answers.

With our stall closed, our income vanished. Luckily, we had some savings. Now, I work in a small shop at a mall, but it’s not the same. I’m 62, but some days I feel much older.

I replay my last moments with my husband often—his fever, coughing, the ambulance. I learned of his death over the phone. His body was cremated before I could say goodbye. That emptiness still haunts me.

My daughter lived in Huanggang, just an hour away, but I couldn’t see her for months. Her city was locked down too. We’re trying to move forward, but the sadness lingers. Meeting others who lost loved ones brings some comfort, but the emptiness will always remain.