Pandemic Thoughts, May/2020

Long ago, I had my astrological chart read. I was born on May 4, 1948, at 10:14 a.m. in New York City. I supplied the astrologer with that information and when I met with her, the first thing she said, her eyes open as wide as they could go, was: Do you ever leave the house? What led her to ask me this question was the fact I have Taurus in some outrageous number of the twelve zodiac houses. I don’t really know what this means, but I had to answer her question honestly: Not if I don’t have to.

So this pandemic … 

At first, and I mean in early March, I was following the news online, on the radio and television, and in the newspaper. It felt as though something was coming toward us, perhaps it would miss us, perhaps it would die out. But given that I am attracted to intense situations and all things dire, I kept my ears and eyes on the developing story. On Wednesday, March 11, a client of mine ended her therapy session, walked toward the door, and asked if she could give me a hug. Ordinarily, this would be something to which I would respond positively; but on that day, I recoiled a bit and said that I did not think it was a good idea to be in physical contact due to the news coming in about this virus from China. She thought about it quickly and agreed.

On Friday, March 13, I got up in the morning and dressed quickly. I had a mission: I was going to gather enough supplies at a variety of stores to last a few weeks. It felt like preparing for a Minnesota blizzard and who knew how long it would be until we could shovel our way out. So I went to three different grocery stores, the pharmacy, the pet food store (my sweet Olive would not be running out of cat food or treats), the hardware store and the post office. By 2 p.m. I was unloading a car full of stuff. And I mean Stuff. All the things that make households flow. I put the items in their places and from that time on — until a couple of days ago — I did not go out of my house, other than for walks. It is now late May.

During the time I have been sequestered, I turned 72. My birthday was earlier this month. Two of my friends orchestrated something for me that I will always remember. I awoke that morning and said out loud to Olive: Today is Monday and it’s my birthday. The only way I have gotten through these last months is by trying my hardest to stay in the present and not wander into the possible calamities of the future. So I start out each morning, the moment I open my eyes, with the mantra: It is Sunday. Or It is Wednesday. Whatever the day is, I state it. This is all I know. This is all I can be sure of. And sometimes it’s even hard to know that! One day is no different from the next. A Saturday feels like Thursday, which feels like Monday. The days wash up on the shore of time and one looks the same as the other. But I digress. My birthday …

My friend Ann told me that she was going to bike over to my house midmorning. When she arrived, I was in the backyard working on a story I will send in a Newsletter soon. Masked, she came into the part of the yard where I was sitting. Our friend Kate was going to be coming over, so Ann said she would go to the front of the house to see if Kate was here yet and to tell her to come around to the back. I returned to my writing. After a several minutes, Ann yelled: Hey Gail, could you come here for a minute? I got up, put my computer on a table, and walked down the driveway. I was completely in shock with what I saw: the street was full of friends and neighbors, all singing Happy Birthday through their masks. It was an amazing sight, perhaps because I had been so people-deprived for months, or because I really had no idea Ann and Kate were cooking up such a surprise, or because seeing all these people whom I love in one place was just so beautiful. My son was there, too, which made me happier than I can express. At the same time this was happening, another friend was in the neighborhood heading for my house with a bag of chalk to create a piece of birthday art on my driveway. I was, as you can imagine, as embarrassed as I was surprised by the entire scene. I thought that these gatherings of singing people in masks only existed for the deserving front-line medical personnel doing courageous work in hospitals. And here I was, receiving all this love in pure daylight. The only part of the morning that was difficult was not being able to hug all the people in the street.

After everyone dispersed, I went to the cemetery, a place I have gone hundreds of times since my husband died in 2012. I go there for all kinds of reasons, not the least of which is that it is one of the most beautiful places in the city. I watch birds there, I take walks, I write there. And of course, I visit Peter. I stood at his grave that afternoon and told him that I will never forget this birthday, my first during a pandemic. He has missed so many horrible things, including the election of this terrible president and now COVID-19. He died of a fatal lung disease, and the recent talk of ventilators, respiratory distress, oximeters, and dry coughs has brought back a torrent of difficult memories. Grief is such an inevitable part of life. If it has not found you yet, it will. The pandemic has been an exercise in loss and, thus, in grief. I have missed Peter as much during these months as I have in eight years. This is not a bad thing, I want to add. I have had this spacious time to remember the person I got to be married to for 35 years.

To be honest, and not surprisingly given my astrological leanings, I have not had one moment when I have not loved being home. Since I can remember, I have been a homebody. I used to joke that traveling for me was merely leaving my ZIP code for the next one over. But there have been days these last months when I have felt lonely and terribly anxious. My age and some underlying medical conditions make me particularly frightened of COVID-19. So I have played it very safe. My daughter has generously delivered my groceries on Sundays, which I have so apppreciated. I have used Amazon, Target, Etsy and CVS to deliver books, kitty litter, paper towels, vitamin supplements, binoculars, light bulbs, moisturizing cream for my hands, a toilet brush, a new USB-C charger for my MacBook Air, microfiber cleaning heads for my mop, elderberry tea, and of late, a variety of face masks.

Here is what I have not loved during these two-plus months: the absence of spontaneity, looking at people in face masks, the lack of human touch, the constant need for vigilance, the degree of suffering that is being experienced, that places of congregate living and working are often death traps, that people are dying alone.

Here is what I love most: the mornings (before I check the headlines). I love the quiet, the empty streets. I got to watch spring arrive, in the halt-and-lurch way it does in Minnesota. I got to watch squirrels making nests and the birds arriving after their winters in the south. What I have found during this pandemic is that I am more acutely aware and interested in what I feel and think. We are free of many distractions, and while I know that can be unsettling for our species, I think it is such a good thing. We have gotten a chance to look in a different direction — inward — for solace as well as for what makes us sad, for the awareness of what existence is about. It has been impossible to avoid the subject of mortality. We have had to face our obsession with being in control alongside the reality that we are in control of so little. Personally, I think this part of the pandemic is a great gift. We have had time to reflect and space to feel deep gratitude and appreciation. Awareness of the positive is never far from awareness of difficulty and hardship — and this is another part of slowing down that I have valued. My capacity has grown to handle and tolerate the enormous ambiguity of life. And this cannot but serve me well in all the days ahead.

I wish safety and health for all of you as the country “opens up.” I am skeptical about the timing but am beginning to go to the plant nursery at the old peoples’ hour. Maybe, with good luck, I will see some of you there.