February 24, 2022, Drohobych

I barely open my eyes because have gone to bed late last night. It's 7 AM. I have a doctor's appointment at 8. I make coffee and quickly drink it on an empty stomach, put on my headphones into ears, and go to the clinic. I recently recovered from COVID, having been out of commission for a week, and now I need to get checked and close my sick leave.

There are unusually many people on the streets. And fighter jets in the sky. It should be just war learnings, since Russia has threatened to start a war for the umpteenth time.

I arrive at the clinic, the smell of bleach circling in the air. I nod in greeting to a few old people sitting on the benches. I also sit down, keeping my headphones in.

A nurse comes out of the office and says that there might be delays in appointments today and patients without an appointment will likely not be seen by the family doctor. Because... the war has started.

I take off my headphones and hear people in the clinic corridors discussing the morning bombings. I am googling and seeing horrifying footage of the capital being bombed, injured people being carried out from under the rubble by medics.

As soon as I leave the clinic, I go to the local grocery store to buy bread. After this action my account balance goes into the negative. I call my mom, find out she and my sister are okay, and she’s in line to ATM machine to withdraw some cash. I do the same but receive a refusal from the bank to withdraw credit funds.

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I meet a former classmate in line who tells me that she and her husband are planning to go to the village because they’re scared to stay in their nine-story building.

Surprisingly, I’m calm. I come home, wake up my husband, and tell him everything. He’s still half-asleep, not fully understanding what’s happening. We make breakfast and discuss what to do next. With a negative account balance, it’s impossible to go anywhere. We have too small salaries to survive in Europe for a month. There is no financial cushion.

Later, I call my dad, tell him everything, and he promises to send money for us to leave the country. Finally, I sit down to work because it’s the only thing I can do right now. It’s hard to focus; most of my team members is in Kharkiv and simply not responding. I have four months of experience; I'm new to the project, but managing the situation and covering for colleagues who are evacuating their families or big accountability falls on my shoulders and a few more colleagues from safer regions or abroad.

In a few days, an international transfer from my dad and a one-time assistance from my husband’s company will arrive to our bank accounts. But by this time, men will no longer be allowed to leave the country. We won’t make it in time, and we’ll decide to move back in with my parents for economic reasons, as all other family members will lose their jobs.

I still believe that the war won’t last long and that it will end in a few months. Like a mad one, I was googling every day when it will end.

In the first months, we’ll face empty supermarket shelves, limited cash withdrawals, huge lines at ATMs, panic over the possibility of saboteur groups entering cities, curfews, fear of windows, glass shards, and turning on the lights in the nights.

My body gives me mixed messages. On one hand, freeze and do nothing. On the other, my subconscious screams, "Live your best life because you might not get another chance."