The contrasts of life right now feel like an insane collision joy and pain. Living in gratitude and love with my husband has been rejuvenating to my soul and spirit, as well as healing to my body. At the same time, the hourly obituaries of loved ones is devastating beyond belief, creating an emotional wave of debilitating weakness. Balance is impossible to attain, and the rollercoaster ride of current daily life is fucking exhausting.
And somehow, we carry on. We must. Sending love and healing prayers to anyone kind enough to read these words. We will find the energy to smile and laugh tomorrow. Again, we must.
-- Larry Flick
Living in New York, the American epicenter of the Coronavirus epidemic, I find that the strangest thing is the split personality of the emergency.
In some ways there's a real sense of urgency. I know a lot of people who contracted COVID-19, and a few who have died from it. I know some people, including family, who are immunocompromised and I particularly worry about them. If I think about it too much, I get numb and need to joke to distract myself. We avoid going anywhere, though there are occasional trips -- mostly to the supermarket or the drugstore. And when we do go out, we're sure to have masks and gloves. I have heard that Elmhurst Hospital has been overwhelmed. And I have heard stories of the city buying large numbers of body bags, of potential shortages of ventilators, and of medical personnel having to decide who gets life saving care and who doesn't. These stories are anecdotal, so it's unclear what's really going on. And that is scary. Any time I cough, I grab for a bottle of essential oil or bleach or something, anything, with a strong scent to reassure myself that I still have my sense of smell.
On the other hand, there are some ways that things seem oddly casual. Since we live in a relatively suburban part of New York, I can look out the window and things look normal. Blair was in our yard the other day and saw a neighbor washing his car. His kids were with him and they were all having fun. He told her (yes, they were at a respectable distance) that he tested positive and he's in quarantine. But it's not a big deal. Lots of folks in the neighborhood have it, he told her.
Somewhere between the extremes of hair-raising panic and shoulder-shrugging casualness is the reality of our occasional trips out. We need groceries, and so we go to the Supermarket. Sometimes we need some individual item, and go to the drug store or even a bakery. Sharon and I used to go out to breakfast every Saturday for some much-needed father-daughter bonding. We can't eat at restaurants anymore, but we can get take-out and then sit at home watching a movie on Netflix. And on these trips we make sure to wear masks and gloves when we leave the car, and it feels as if we're in a zombie movie, trying to keep a reasonable distance from strangers, and always being on the lookout -- though I'm not sure exactly what we're looking out for. We sometimes have to wait in line before entering a store because they are limiting the number of customers that can be inside at once. And on line for the cashier we have to stay away from the people in front of us in line. Far enough away that it would look comical in normal times. Still and all, Sharon and I manage to have our weekly breakfast together. And we can mostly get whatever groceries we want. And we can get our cat the medicine he needs. And I had no trouble (OK, a little trouble) getting a black and white cookie for Frank Gorshin's birthday. All of those things are luxuries that many people in the world don't have even in the best of times.
Until last summer I worked at home part time. It was a luxury. I did it for ten years before my company decided that too much collaboration and camaraderie was lost when too many people work from home on a regular basis. As of last summer we ended the work-from-home arrangements and all came back to the office. So now we're back at home. All of us. Full time. Until further notice. But this isn't a luxury. This feels like exile. Still, I have to remember that I'm fortunate. I know many people who can't work from home. Some of them are deemed essential and need to go to work and face the public. Others have lost employment. And I have friends who rely on gigs. They get paid for public speaking -- a market which has dried up. So, for now I'm fortunate that my paycheck hasn't been affected. Yet. There are no guarantees that that will last.
And when the home feels like a prison, I have to remember that the cage is gilded. I am sitting here on a computer writing a blogpost as a recreational activity. I can watch videos. I can listen to music. I can read books and do puzzles. I can go out in my garden and enjoy the flowers that are coming up. And I am sharing this prison with my wife and children -- the most important people in my life. And, as far as we can tell, we're still all healthy.
Knock on wood, and stay safe and well.
In some ways there's a real sense of urgency. I know a lot of people who contracted COVID-19, and a few who have died from it. I know some people, including family, who are immunocompromised and I particularly worry about them. If I think about it too much, I get numb and need to joke to distract myself. We avoid going anywhere, though there are occasional trips -- mostly to the supermarket or the drugstore. And when we do go out, we're sure to have masks and gloves. I have heard that Elmhurst Hospital has been overwhelmed. And I have heard stories of the city buying large numbers of body bags, of potential shortages of ventilators, and of medical personnel having to decide who gets life saving care and who doesn't. These stories are anecdotal, so it's unclear what's really going on. And that is scary. Any time I cough, I grab for a bottle of essential oil or bleach or something, anything, with a strong scent to reassure myself that I still have my sense of smell.
On the other hand, there are some ways that things seem oddly casual. Since we live in a relatively suburban part of New York, I can look out the window and things look normal. Blair was in our yard the other day and saw a neighbor washing his car. His kids were with him and they were all having fun. He told her (yes, they were at a respectable distance) that he tested positive and he's in quarantine. But it's not a big deal. Lots of folks in the neighborhood have it, he told her.
Somewhere between the extremes of hair-raising panic and shoulder-shrugging casualness is the reality of our occasional trips out. We need groceries, and so we go to the Supermarket. Sometimes we need some individual item, and go to the drug store or even a bakery. Sharon and I used to go out to breakfast every Saturday for some much-needed father-daughter bonding. We can't eat at restaurants anymore, but we can get take-out and then sit at home watching a movie on Netflix. And on these trips we make sure to wear masks and gloves when we leave the car, and it feels as if we're in a zombie movie, trying to keep a reasonable distance from strangers, and always being on the lookout -- though I'm not sure exactly what we're looking out for. We sometimes have to wait in line before entering a store because they are limiting the number of customers that can be inside at once. And on line for the cashier we have to stay away from the people in front of us in line. Far enough away that it would look comical in normal times. Still and all, Sharon and I manage to have our weekly breakfast together. And we can mostly get whatever groceries we want. And we can get our cat the medicine he needs. And I had no trouble (OK, a little trouble) getting a black and white cookie for Frank Gorshin's birthday. All of those things are luxuries that many people in the world don't have even in the best of times.
Until last summer I worked at home part time. It was a luxury. I did it for ten years before my company decided that too much collaboration and camaraderie was lost when too many people work from home on a regular basis. As of last summer we ended the work-from-home arrangements and all came back to the office. So now we're back at home. All of us. Full time. Until further notice. But this isn't a luxury. This feels like exile. Still, I have to remember that I'm fortunate. I know many people who can't work from home. Some of them are deemed essential and need to go to work and face the public. Others have lost employment. And I have friends who rely on gigs. They get paid for public speaking -- a market which has dried up. So, for now I'm fortunate that my paycheck hasn't been affected. Yet. There are no guarantees that that will last.
And when the home feels like a prison, I have to remember that the cage is gilded. I am sitting here on a computer writing a blogpost as a recreational activity. I can watch videos. I can listen to music. I can read books and do puzzles. I can go out in my garden and enjoy the flowers that are coming up. And I am sharing this prison with my wife and children -- the most important people in my life. And, as far as we can tell, we're still all healthy.
Knock on wood, and stay safe and well.
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