Things are about to get worse.

A lot worse, if you’re the sort who believes what doctors and scientists have to say.

On one hand, that seems a little hard to believe when more than 250,000 people have already died from COVID-19 in America. God only knows how many millions who have recovered will continue to suffer with long-term symptoms. But now Missouri and several other states face the scariest scenario: skyrocketing cases and an overwhelmed health care system.

In this nightmare, people who desperately need medical care can’t get it because there isn’t enough space, staff or resources. We aren’t just talking about COVID patients; if a hospital is at capacity, it can’t take victims of heart attacks, strokes or car accidents, either.

We can’t say we weren’t warned.

How many times does Dr. Alex Garza, incident commander of the St. Louis Metropolitan Pandemic Task Force, need to cry during press briefings about record-breaking COVID hospitalizations, begging Gov. Mike Parson for help and imploring the rest of us to do the right thing? Parson has been impervious to the cries of doctors, nurses and hospital administrators asking for a statewide mask mandate.

Just this week, a new study from St. Louis University found that the mask mandates in St. Louis and St. Louis County quickly and drastically slowed coronavirus infection rates this summer compared with outlying counties. After 12 weeks, the average daily growth rate of coronavirus cases in these two areas was still 40% lower than in counties without the policy.

But that’s not going to mean a thing to those who believe that the virus is an overblown hoax, covered incessantly by the news media just to affect the Nov. 3 election. Or that doctors and hospitals are fraudulently listing people as COVID patients to “make more money.” Or that this disease is no worse than the flu, that masks are oppressive and ineffective, and that herd immunity is our best option.

These are flat-out dangerous lies, and I’m sorry if you’ve been fooled into believing them.

Of course, people can believe whatever nonsense they want. But how should we respond when beliefs become behavior that threatens the lives and well-being of others? In other areas of public safety, we make laws requiring seat belts and laws against drinking and driving. Sure, some people break these rules anyway, but we don’t abolish laws and rules because of that.

It’s ironic that a self-proclaimed “law and order” governor like Parson doesn’t understand that, when thousands of people are dying in his state.

Health care is a finite resource -- except for politicians, of course, who get top-notch care at our expense -- and medical workers in some places are having to decide who gets an ICU bed and who doesn’t. The prospect of rationing health care raises some unpleasant questions. Should those who sacrificed and tried their best to follow CDC guidelines be forced to give up health care for themselves, their child, their parent or their spouse just because someone who never wore a mask and carried on with life as usual showed up at the hospital before them?

Well, we don’t have a choice in that situation. Doctors treat whoever shows up, as best they can -- whether it’s the drunk driver or the grievously injured child that driver hit.

Health care workers risk their lives to treat patients in Missouri’s rural areas, where far fewer people take the virus seriously and some are openly hostile to masking or any restrictions. We will never know how many doctors and nurses were infected and killed by COVID-deniers whose lives they helped save.

God love those souls trying to protect themselves and others in communities where they are mocked or ostracized for their belief in science.

It’s fascinating that thousands of people were willing to sign waivers releasing the current administration from liability if they caught the coronavirus after attending one of its superspreader campaign rallies.

Would they sign a similar release waiving their right to medical care?

These QAnon Karens and Plandemic Petes could put their money where their mouths are and do just that.

Somehow, I doubt they’re that committed.

Even before I fell and broke my hand this week, ideas about healing had been top of mind.

My way of dealing with anxiety -- both pandemic and political -- involves frequent long walks in state and local parks. On one such walk, with my pup Frankie and a friend, I had been thinking about President-elect Joe Biden’s call to heal the nation after the most divisive election I’ve ever seen in this country.

We were a mile into a scenic and gravelly trail in Castlewood State Park when I lost my footing and fell onto the rocky path.

Rocks make an unforgiving landing pad.

My friend panicked when she saw me on the ground, head bleeding. I had put my hands out to catch myself, and figured something had snapped when I felt the sharp radiating pain in my right hand and wrist.

Two kindly women stopped when they saw me lying on the path and heard my friend asking if she should call 911.

“Do you know where you are?” one of them asked. “Do you know what day it is?”

She said she was relying on her knowledge from having watched many medical dramas on television. As someone who claims my medical license from WebMD, I appreciated her expertise.

I managed to convince these helpers that I likely did not have a serious head injury. An older gentleman walked up to the scene, and the medical drama lady asked him if he had any snacks to give me. He offered trail mix and a band-aid for my head. I accepted both.

The last Good Samaritan to arrive turned out to be a nurse (no disrespect to the medical drama watchers, but I was relieved to have someone with nonfictional training chime in). She advised me to get to an orthopedic injury center instead of a regular emergency room, most of which are overrun with COVID cases now.

But before that, I had a daunting, immediate challenge to face: how to get down from the hilly trail. Going back the way we’d come up would be tricky because of steep inclines, but the slightly easier way down would add another two miles to our hike.

We opted to fashion a sling out of my friend’s jacket and take the longer path down. My hand, knees and nose started to swell along the way. My husband, who is still using oxygen while he recovers from a severe COVID infection two months ago, picked me up at the exit and drove me to an injury center.

We had some time to kill while I waited to get X-rays, so I switched from thinking about my personal physical healing to all the other types of healing needed in our country -- emotional, relational, economic and racial.

Doctors can put my fractured hand in a cast and the bone will eventually knit together. But how do we knit together a fractured nation? How do we begin to heal when opposing sides have two completely different versions of reality?

I’ve told my children that repairing bruised relationships requires taking responsibility for mistakes, hurtful words or actions, and then offering sincere apologies.

I am not expecting apologies from the readers who have sent nasty and insulting messages over the past several years. Nor do I expect to have the same kind of relationships with a few friends who revealed starkly different values than mine.

When I’ve asked others what needs to happen to heal the seemingly unbridgeable gaps in our society, I’ve heard suggestions like bringing back the Fairness Doctrine (a bygone FCC policy), better regulation of social media platforms that spread destructive misinformation, or a truth and reconciliation commission to put to rest conspiracies designed to destabilize our democracy.

Doctors told me that I might need surgery if the small broken bone behind my thumb gets displaced. I’m praying that a period of quiet and rest after the fall -- and a long, painful hike back -- will be enough to recover what was broken.

Wishing the same for our country.

Some parenting firsts are etched into memory.

Our daughter’s first word was “duck” because we went to a park with a duck pond so often. She loved her first day of preschool so much that she wanted to stay when it was time for pickup. I can vividly recall small details from her first birthday party, first airplane trip and first ride on her pink-and-purple Big Wheel tricycle.

A few of these memories crossed my mind as I drove her to the St. Louis County Board of Elections last month. She wore the “Vote” necklace I’d given her for her 18th birthday the week before.

I took a picture of her in line outside the building, and another while she waited inside for her ballot. The election officials clapped when I told them she was a first-timer. When I pulled out my phone to take a picture of her at the ballot box, she rolled her eyes. A poll worker told me to stop and put my phone away.

I waited until she was done to take another picture outside with her “I voted” sticker. I forced her to take a selfie with me in the car. Before we drove home, I told her that no matter what happens going forward, I wanted her to promise to never miss an opportunity to vote in her life.

I wonder if being the child of immigrants makes this responsibility feel so sacred to me. Maybe because I grew up knowing that my parents left behind everything familiar and beloved to them, I have taken each election as a chance to validate that sacrifice. In a country that doesn’t always feel accepting, each time I vote, I am reminded that I belong.

That my voice matters.

I’ll never forget the one time I was denied a ballot. It was more than 20 years ago in an off-cycle election in Missouri. I decided to go to my polling station after work. For whatever reason, I wasn’t on the rolls when they checked for my name, even though I had voted in previous elections. The woman working at that location suggested that I could drive to the county Board of Elections to try to sort it out. But the polls were about to close, and I knew I wouldn’t make it there in time.

I was devastated, walking out without having cast a ballot. It felt like I had been robbed.

The experience did teach me a lesson. Since that day, I’ve always voted first thing in the morning, or in-person absentee if I know I’ll be out of my jurisdiction on Election Day. This year, I double-checked my registration, and that of the two new voters in my household, multiple times.

My husband, who became an American citizen three years ago, has now also voted in his first presidential election. I drove him to the Board of Elections two weeks after he was discharged from the hospital after battling a severe COVID-19 infection. He took his oxygen tank with him, and I took just as many pictures of him in line as I had of my daughter.

I knew more first-time voters in this election than ever before. As I write this, I still don’t know the final outcome from the record-breaking turnout. The only thing we know for sure is that nearly half the country will be bitterly disappointed with however it ends up.

It’s been remarkable to see so many people determined to have their voice heard. But the long lines should also remind us that people should not have to wait for hours to exercise a basic, fundamental right.

I hope that each of those first-time voters felt the same addictive thrill that I did casting my first ballot.

Regardless of outcome, the message endures: You belong. Your voice matters.