By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

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A Note from the Pandemic

I was being driven to an appointment earlier this week when a reminder flashed on my phone. It was one of those “On This Day” memories—a flashback from five years ago. It was a note I had posted on social media during one of the darkest times I can remember.

It read:

Today, the national death toll in the United States reached 80,000. In the state where I live, the deaths are many. They have brought in refrigerated trailers to hold the bodies. The mortuaries have more bodies than they can carry. The coroner’s office is over capacity. It is being reported that 100 people died in the city where I live yesterday alone.

That note was one of millions posted by people around the world that day. It was part of a collective cry for help. It was a shared testimony during a global crisis. The crisis tested the very core of our humanity. The COVID-19 pandemic wasn’t just a health emergency—it was a historical reckoning.

The novel coronavirus (SARS-CoV-2), first identified in late 2019, swept through cities and countries with terrifying speed. It took the lives of the elderly and the young. It didn’t care about borders or status. It wasn’t limited by language, ideology, or belief. It was an indiscriminate invader—silent, invisible, and merciless.

Hospitals filled to capacity. ICUs ran out of beds and ventilators. Nurses worked 12–16 hour shifts in full protective gear. They returned the next day knowing more patients would be gone. They feared coworkers would be gone too. Some had to reuse PPE, others never had proper protection at all. Entire medical teams were decimated. The faces behind the masks—so many of them never seen again by their loved ones.

In some areas, morgues overflowed, and refrigerated trucks became temporary storage for the deceased. Funeral homes struggled to keep up. Families said goodbye to loved ones through screens or from behind glass, incapable of touching them one last time.

Masks became a symbol—of protection, of politics, of protest. While many wore them out of care for others, others rejected them, fueled by fear, misinformation, or political agendas. What should have been a unified public health response fractured along ideological lines.

The spread of disinformation only made things worse. Some media personalities claimed the virus was “just a flu.” Other public figures suggested it was a hoax designed for political or financial gain. Some of those very same people later contracted the virus. A few died from it—some reportedly urging others to take it seriously with their final breaths.

For me, it was personal. I knew approximately twenty—or more—people I had known for most of my life who died from COVID-19. Every day brought another notice: a friend from childhood, a neighbor, someone from church, a former coworker. Sometimes I would hear from relatives who lost someone. Other times, I’d check news from back home and learn that yet another familiar name had been claimed. In places I had once lived, people I had once shared moments and memories with—gone. The virus wasn’t abstract. It carved itself into the story of my life, my family, my friends, and their families.

Vaccines would eventually arrive, faster than any in modern history. But by then, millions had died, and countless others were left with long-term effects—some still suffering today. As of mid-2025, more than 1.1 million Americans have died from COVID-19. Globally, the death toll has surpassed 7 million, though some estimates suggest the real numbers were even higher.

That reminder on my phone was more than just a memory. It was a marker—a scar from a time we lived through together, yet each experienced in our own way.

Let it be said clearly: the virus was real. The loss was real. And for many, the grief still is.

Let that note stand as a record not just of tragedy, but of resilience. Of what we went through—and of what we must remember. Because forgetting invites the risk of repeating it all over again.