Journaling Through: 3/29/20

Yesterday, I made split-pea soup, meatballs, and two different kinds of quiche.  Today, it is not quite 4:30, and I have already cleaned the barn twice, excavated and inventoried several Kodak carousels of slides from my childhood, taken the dogs to the dog park, practiced piano, did Duolingo Spanish, began to read from a very bleak novel about the young women who were abducted by Boko Haram, began to watch Narcos (Mexico) with Spanish subtitles, began to watch the fifth installment of a 12-part lecture series about the bubonic plague; and then, well, I found myself at a loss for how to occupy my time.

Eating mixed nuts all afternoon didn't seem like a very good idea.

It wasn't quite raining out, but I told myself that the ground was too muddy and soft to train Tanner, my Quarter Horse in spring training.  But then I thought of the EMTs in NYC, what they're going through, and felt ashamed that I allowed my goal of training Tanner to be obstructed by a little rain and mud. I entertained the thought of pushing through, pushing myself harder, to honor a moment in history that called for endurance, perseverance, and self-sacrifice.

I would go out into the drab, blustery, blech weather and carry on, make progress, and do what I set out to do.  This would be my way of embracing a little discomfort, making a little effort, etc, etc, etc,.

None of this spiel motivated me toward action, alas.

I decided that the ground conditions and weather were not the sort of thing worth pushing hard against.

My poor 17-year-old horse would slip and go lame.  Then the vet would have to come out on a Sunday, and I wouldn't be allowed to assist her (because of COVID-19).  I'd have to leave Tanner out in the pasture for the vet to catch (in the mud) with her own sanitized horse halter. (That would suck for her.)

I was looking forward to sunny weather tomorrow with greater than normal anticipation.

I would like to have watched something on TV. The Irishman, perhaps, for three hours.

But I didn't. I watched the news, instead.  I watched the latest YouTube videos on COVID-19. I read the latest in the New York Times, the Washington Post, and the BBC--all, apps on my phone.  I stood motionless, staring at my phone until every muscle in my body had petrified.

I didn't think about COVID-19 this morning, while fishing among the Kodak carousels (that I had brought up from the basement for the first time since we'd moved) for any old slides of interest.

I didn't think about COVID-19 when I discovered photos of my childhood dog, at 10 weeks old, an imperious and adorable Saint Bernard, with great big paws  undifferentiated beneath legs as  solid and imposing as Greek columns.

I did not think about COVID-19 when I found the best picture I ever saw in my life of Susie, the proud rescue dog, with me, ersatz Heidi of the Alps, nestled in the opulent fur of Susie's majestic chest.

I did not think of COVID-19 when I found a rare photo of Dad,  Mom, and me, vertically assembled like a short stack of dominoes.  I put that one on the short stack of slides for my husband to make prints of later.

While walking the dogs, I wondered if displaying that particular photograph of my pre-divorce family was such a good idea.  It was a rare and lovely photograph. It was also a painful photograph to see.

It's like this: If you had read my blog posts from 2017 to now, you'd know how trying the last few years have been--both for me, and for the country at large. But if you look at my photographs on Instagram of the past few years--at the hundreds and hundreds of photographs I took--you'd think I lived a charmed life (and take way too many photographs).

Both these things are true. The last few years have been horrendous, and I do live a charmed life.

That is how it is, in good and terrible times.



 

Journaling Through: 3/27/20

So I got an "Emergency Alert" on my phone, the kind I associate with tornadoes and dangerous electrical storms. It said, "COVID-19 is in your community...If you leave home, assume you were exposed to COVID-19."  

Now, I'm not saying that sending out alerts like this is a bad idea, but I do have a few questions.

First, when they say "your community," what exactly are they talking about?  Dane County?  The Town of Oregon?  My neighbors up the street?

As I frantically searched online for the origins of this alert, one thought occurred to me: Maybe this was how the authorities alerted individuals to the fact that they had come into contact with someone who had tested positive for COVID-19.

They're supposed to track down all of the people whom an infected person might have in turn infected.  Had I come into contact with someone in my community who was infected with COVID-19?

I became super-aware of the back of my throat, suddenly on the verge of discomfort.  But my research distracted me from fabricating more symptoms, and I soon learned that that wasn't it. The alert was not for me, specifically, as a chance victim of a chance encounter with some infected person.

The alert had gone out to everyone in all of Dane County, because the number of infected people has increased in the past two weeks from 1-3 confirmed cases to several hundred.

And now I understand how some of my friends feel when they receive my instant messages with "helpful information" about COVID-19.  We're all following the news obsessively, but on the odd occasions when we're not, we may be diligently trying to focus on our work. We may be attempting to carve out a little time to not read about COVID-19 on a phone app or watch it on TV.

I was at my desk trying to work when I received the Emergency Alert.  And obviously, as outlined above, it took me several close readings and layers of online research to figure out exactly what it was saying to me.

For one who was already sheltering in place at home, as instructed, it was an Emergency Alert saying, DON'T FORGET TO PANIC!

But I get it: Everyone interprets state, federal, and CDC guidelines according to their own biases.  Everyone has to weigh that specifically COVID-19 sense of urgency against other countervailing pressures, which can also weigh heavily in the balance. COVID-19 has a lot to compete with for people's absolute attention and fealty. Officials need to put the fear of God into all of us, to make each of us bend the knee.

And I get that's why officials feel they need to scare me half to death with a vaguely worded Emergency Alert. But I hope this Coronavirus PR doesn't give me a freakin' heart attack, since, God knows, it's driving up my blood pressure.

Once I had figured out that nothing had changed at all for me since before I'd received the alert (besides my elevated stress level), I decided to start my weekend early.  I took a long hot shower to wash that COVID-19 right out of my hair.  And then I sat down to write this, a towel wrapped around my head, because this is how I journal through.

Journaling Through: 3/24/2020

Everything about this virus situation is weird.  

It's weird that we're all confined to our homes or out on the front lines. 

If you're on the front lines, you could be a cashier at a KwikTrip, gloveless and face to face with the public.  Or you might be stocking shelves at a supermarket. Or you might be on the staff of a hospital, inadequately protected and directly exposed to the virus.   

Whether you're at home, or one of the essential workers, you're probably stressed out. The sources and the levels of your stress may be different, but stress is running high. 

And that's weird. It's weird for everyone to be stressed out at the same time. 

But given that we're all stressed out at the same time, it's probably best to be at least ten feet apart. 

Social media is getting even more touchy.  

I forwarded the same informational item to a dozen people. I received several thank you's and a few "please don't send me anymore stuff; I'm looking after my mental health."  Fair enough.

Note to self: Communicating by buckshot is not ideal when everyone's so stressed out.  

I'm sheltering at home, so I have less to worry about in terms of exposure to the disease.  My family is sequestered here with me.  And, we're introverts, suited to a limited habitat.  

But, last week was long.  Subjectively, insanely long: the way the seconds drag out when you're doing chin-ups.  

I think I'm breathing less--like the way animals, attuned to some particular sound, pause in their breathing in order to hear it better.  When I'm processing what's happening, my breathing is shallow, as though I need absolute silence to think.    

Earlier, I felt ready to draw order out of chaos.  I had several puddles of chaos to mop up, and a narrow window of time in the day when my mind is clear enough to tackle it:  

• Over half a dozen emails describing the concern, resources, and bewilderment of administrators, counselors, and teachers who have to find new ways to feed, equip, and educate the youth of our community.  
• The platforms, passwords, and class codes for planned online learning (confounds me)  
• The lists of missing assignments that reach back to February!  (What the heck?!)

I printed out reams of orchestra music and wished I owned a stapler. 

The puddles disappear, but the chaos continues to drip, drip, drip.

My brain reached an impasse when I started writing this blog post.  

The overarching theme of illness touches all, even the most ordinary things. 

Am I not supposed to drive to the dog park after the governor decreed that all non-essential workers should shelter in place?  Isn't there always a dog walk exception?

  

On the way back from the dog park, I stopped at the KwikTrip for gas and milk. With bleach-soaked handiwipes, I wiped down everything before I touched it: the gas nozzle, the key pad.  I shoulder my way through doors and gates.  For the second time, I wipe down the steering wheel, the door, the door latches.  At home, I take off my boots, hang up my jacket, and make a bee-line to the sink to wash my hands, (though I'd already sanitized twice in the car).  

It feels germaphobic and slightly mad, and at the same time, inadequate--which is weird. 

Life has gotten very weird.

Journaling Through, A Space Odyssey: 3/23

Funny, the songs that pop into your head.  Here are two that popped into mine:

--

"Space Oddity" (David Bowie)

This is Major Tom to Ground Control
I'm stepping through the door
And I'm floating in a most peculiar way
And the stars look very different today
For here
Am I sitting in a tin can
Far above the world
Planet Earth is blue
And there's nothing I can do [...]

--

"You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go" (Bob Dylan)

[...La, la, la...]
You're gonna make me wonder what I'm doin'
Stayin' far behind without you
You're gonna make me wonder what I'm sayin'
You're gonna make me give myself a good talkin' to

I'll look for you in old Honolul-a
San Francisco, Ashtabula
You're gonna have to leave me now, I know
But I'll see you in the sky above
In the tall grass, in the ones I love
You're gonna make me lonesome when you go

--

Today, while walking the dogs, having placed a plastic poop bag over my gloved hand to handle the gate latch upon entering the park, I realized, I have an amazing opportunity right now to pen a song for these times.  Because the times have changed, and all times need songs.

So, imagine these lyrics as sung by Bob Dylan. Not that Bob Dylan would ever sing these lyrics, but just play along.

--

I'd do anything for you
wash my hands and Purell too
I got sanitizer
with your name...(on it)

My love for you is highly rated
Don't wanna see you ventilated
Remember you are always in my heart

One day we'll hold hands in the dark
display affection in the park
Eat food with our fingers
lick it off

We'll drink in our favorite bar
if it's there
and we still are
Remember, you are always in my heart

But for now it is our fate
socially to separate
Please babe, don't perseverate
the cost!

I'll see you on the Internet
so wash your hands and don't forget
I love you when your hands are soapy wet

You know I would die for you
but why should I
as long as you
observe basic precautions
won't you do?

And if you go to work today
don't come home, babe
stay away
Send me sexy pictures from your phone

Cause baby I would die for you
but wash your hands and Purell too
Why should Mom get sick because you won't?

I'll see you on my phone tonight
Don't worry babe, it'll be alright
I am just the type that needs my space

If you love me, stay apart
hold me close inside your heart
ain't no point us catchin' STDs

I'll see you in a dozen apps
and chat with you and email too
You sure look your best six feet away

Now, missing you is all I do
but this is how we'll make it through
something we could not anticipate

One day we'll hold hands in the dark
display affection in the park
Eat food with our fingers
lick it off

But for now it is our fate
socially to separate
Remember, you are always in my heart

Journaling Through: 3/21/20

Today, we were supposed to drive to Chicago O'Hare and take a red-eye flight to  Reykjavik, Iceland.

We had an apartment booked for tomorrow night in Reykjavik, where we planned to spend Sunday  seeing the sights, going to museums, scanning menus to decide where and what to eat.

On Monday, we were to drive to Silfra, wriggle into dry suits and snorkel in the deep rift between the North American and Eurasian continental plates, where the water is so clear and deep, you can get vertigo if you forget that you're swimming and imagine you are falling--very, very far, as off a building or a cliff.

I am afraid of heights, so, to be honest, I had mixed feelings about this adventure.

On the one hand, super cool to swim between tectonic plates. On the other, freezing face and terrifying vertigo.

It was my son's idea, which is surprising, given that my son is not known for being a great adventurer.  I don't believe he has ever for a moment enjoyed that youthful sense of immortality that one hears about.  He is anxiously cautious, and his skin is so sensitive that he can't swim in a chlorinated pool or take a warm shower without being very itchy afterwards.  He takes cool showers only--a cruel twist of fate, if you ask me, because a hot shower is one of my life's great pleasures.

Anyway, it was Josh's idea to snorkel, and his father, who has NEVER swum in open water even once the whole 20 years I've known him, was quick to agree that this was a really great idea.

And that's the thing about travel: It fires up the imagination to such an intense heat that no vision, no matter how fantastical, appears entirely implausible.

We envisioned ourselves enthusiastically squeezing into (smelly, rubber) dry suits and snorkeling with exposed faces in very cold, very deep  water in the very steep, very narrow junction between two ever-shifting continental plates.

We made a reservation, typed in the numbers from a small plastic card, and voila!  That very odd and unlikely vision of ourselves suddenly became almost inevitable.

On Tuesday, we were to ride Icelandic ponies on a black sand beach in Vik ("veek"). Obviously, I chose this activity, but Phil and Josh were game to ride.

Here, too, I note a disconnect between what we do not enjoy in our daily lives and what we imagine enjoying very much as adventurous travelers.

Because we have three horses at home, and Phil and Josh will have nothing to do with them.

At first, when we planned to get the farm, they both took riding lessons.

Phil, a natural (but indifferent) athlete, showed promise, but he soon lost interest.

Josh found it physically uncomfortable to bounce around on a saddle.

Neither of them were ever into the horses enough to work through their natural fear of them. And that's understandable: If you're not irrationally drawn to horses, the prevailing instinct is to appreciate them from a safe distance.

Nonetheless, we all signed up to ride outdoors in the Icelandic winter on robust ponies along a black-sand beach.

By the way, the sand is black because it's volcanic. And there's an active volcano near Vik that's overdue to go off.  I'm just saying. We all signed up for this with great enthusiasm. Such is the psychotropic effect of planning a trip.

One popular tourist activity we were not especially keen on was the geothermal resort near Reykjavik.The problem there was they have these sentinels in the shower area whose sole job is to watch you clean yourself before entering the pool area.

To clarify, they watch to make sure that you do a very thorough job, and if you don't, or they don't think you have, if they think you've missed a spot, say, then they would communicate their disapproval.

Everyone says it's no big deal and totally worth it, but I can only picture the last prophetic ghost in Dickens' A Christmas Carol raising its arm and pointing with that long, skeleton finger toward my personal private parts.

I cannot picture my adventurous alter ego passing through that gauntlet of humiliation without many hours of anticipatory dread that culminate in utter desolation.

And neither could Phil.

But Josh was game. Unfortunately, we just didn't seem to have enough time built into our itinerary for that.

We would have had a good time, I think, way over there in Iceland, far outside of our comfort zones.

But instead, we're home. Well, at least we are together.

I wish I felt inspired to come up with some activities that we  three could do together, and which would give us many hours of entertainment that we could look back on fondly years from now when we might think about the plague.

We are each naturally independent and introverted, so we see little of each other even though we are all sheltering in the same house.   I walk dogs, type words, clean barn, train horse.  Phil works upstairs, bakes bread, and runs on the treadmill in the basement.  Josh, at 16, is upstairs in that horrifically messy room carving out a life for himself that excludes his parents by design.

But someday, definitely, we will go to Iceland, snorkel between the continents, ride ponies beside an active volcano, and maybe even soak in a geothermal pool at some godforsaken resort.  

Journaling Through: 3/19/20

Yesterday, I was smug about how easy it is for me to socially separate, because I live on a farm, I work from home, and I'm an introvert.  It's not hard for me to distance myself from others.  It often takes some effort to do the opposite.

But today, I feel unfocused, as though my brain has blown a fuse.  I can barely find the words to write a sentence.

It's a complaint of the privileged, I know.  Feeling generally and profusely muddled is far better than having an acute, specific worry--like not having enough money or food or shelter to get through the next few weeks.

My neighbor, a retired doctor, wrote in a text to me last night, "I hope you are all able to stay safe during this difficult time and that you have plenty of food on hand which will last weeks. Things may get a lot worse before they get better. It is possible we will all be quarantined for some time. That will really be tough if it happens."

And I realized: we did not have enough food on hand to last us for weeks.

So this morning, after breakfast, rather than sitting at my desk and poring over a manuscript that needs to be transmitted to production, I did some well considered panic shopping.

I thought about renewing my Costco membership online and making the Coronavirus pilgrimage to the great warehouse of bulk items.  Maybe the lines wouldn't be too long, at 9:30 in the morning, a time when most people are at home or at work.

But standing in line would afford very little control over how much separation I could have from the people behind and in front of me. And if I was going to stand in line for ten minutes or longer...

Suddenly, Costco seemed like the last place I wanted to be.

I could go to Bill's, our local supermarket. There wouldn't be much of a line there--maybe no line at all.  I know where everything is at Bill's.  I could be very efficient.

On the other hand, Bill's was smaller than Super Target, and I would feel badly about taking too many boxes of cereal and other staple items.

Target definitely had more inventory, at lower prices.  And since I was preparing to shop for several weeks' worth of food and sundry, lower price points were not irrelevant.

The fact that I had to think this decision through to this degree conveyed a peculiar gravity upon the errand.

I felt like Sarah Connor (in Terminator) or Carrie Matheson (in Homeland), driving north on South Fish Hatch and turning west on M toward the Target.

It would have been obvious to anyone glancing at my cart (which I had wiped down with bleach solution) that I was shopping for the zombie apocalypse.

The prices of things that people needed had been kept deliberately low, which made me feel warm and tender about humanity, and more profoundly scared.

It's the little things that start to sink in, like what kind of Godzilla must this be for the House and Congress to amicably pass enormous rescue bills, practically overnight?

Mitch McConnell is going to agree to send every American citizen a check for $1000 not once, but twice?  Andrew Yang was my #1, but who would have dreamt that Basic Universal Income would be approved by this Republican Congress?

And the news: Italy. Their mortality rate spiked to 9 percent. Nine percent. Nearly one out of 10 people infected die.

That was the tipping point, I now realize, rolling the numbers around in my head. Too many dead to properly bury.

I had to pause from my daily work to sit with this new information and let it sink in.

I know, we all must carry on as best we can.  We all have our jobs to do, and I'm very fortunate to be able to do mine from home.

But I also need to make time to not be socially separate.  Life goes on as normal in my own bubble world.  But when I tune in to what's happening out there in the world, and especially to people at the epicenter of the unfurling disaster, I have to stop, and pause, to take it all in.  

Today, it's overwhelming.




  

Journaling Through: 3/18/20

I seem to be wired like my guard dog, Zarya. With nothing to worry about, Z can get edgy, even hysterical for no reason.  But give her something to worry about, and she is all business, focused like a laser.   I am similarly like a frayed electric wire on an ordinary day.  But, in the shadow of the Coronavirus, I become appropriately alert, vigilant, and focused on confronting whatever form danger takes.

Last Thursday, book club gathered at Anita's house.  I explained in an email to our group that I thought it was not a good idea for all of us to gather and break bread in someone's home, under the circumstances.  But that was six days ago, when the situation was still subject to interpretation, and  a scant handful of confirmed cases had turned up in Wisconsin.

I understood that my book club friends would think I was hysterical.

Last Monday, I sent my 16-yr old to school.  A couple hours later, the nurse called.  Josh had come to her complaining of stomach pains.  I was relieved to bring him home. I called the high school the next morning and for the rest of the week to make his excuses.

But every morning I wondered, was I being hysterical?  Was keeping my son out of school the wrong choice?  Could I keep him out of school for the entire two weeks before spring break?  What about after spring break?

What if I continued to be in the minority of parents who were appropriately worked up about the Coronavirus?

Meanwhile, earl last week, the high school was still making plans to call off school Friday for the purpose of bussing all interested high school students to the girls' state basketball championships.

I couldn't believe this was happening.

I felt I had to do something, and quick. So, I threw a meme up on FB, an ostrich in defiance, with a caption that mocked the school district for its Coronavirus Response Plan: to transport the entire student body by bus, packed like sardines, to another school where they would sit side-by-side, stacked like fire wood on bleachers, and shout at the tops of their lungs, spraying germs all around like confetti.

A more mature person might suggest I ought to have written a respectful email to the superintendent, or made an appointment to have a word with him.  But if my book club friends who know how occasionally insightful I could be about a novel that I managed to read had dismissed my concerns, why would the school superintendent change his mind?

No, it had to be the social media equivalent of a cocktail Molotov, which protest surely had no real bearing on the superintendent's decision last Wednesday or Thursday to cancel Friday's event. But cancel it he did, to my immense relief.

By Thursday, the governor of Wisconsin determined to close all public schools, starting on  Wednesday.  Would I send Josh to school on Monday or Tuesday?  No, I would not.

By Saturday, the governor decided not to wait so long. All public schools would be closed immediately.

Our new luggage arrived yesterday. Three hard-shell suitcases in distinctive eggplant--small, medium, and large. I knew when I ordered them that we most likely would not be going to Iceland for spring break 2020.  But, on the slim chance that we could, we would need suitcases. And, I figured, we could get a nice deal on luggage about now.

A big box of luggage rests a few feet from the door. None of us has the heart to unpack it.

Ordinary Photographs

My son accuses me of posting way too many photos on Instagram. He points out how much the quality varies--from pretty good to nobody cares, and enough with the trees already.

Occasionally, I go back and delete the ones that do not spark joy, but I still have over 3,000 photos on Instagram.

Before Instagram, I uploaded photos to Shutterfly.  Last week, I went through those photos (hundreds) and ordered prints of everyone and everything I love, including people, dogs, cats, and places where I've lived and worked.  But mostly people, dogs, and cats--in that order.

150 prints, of which about 135 are really good.

I also have photo albums that reflect my usual level of overzealousness. Today, I paged through several albums and ruthlessly culled the wheat from the chaff.

In the process, I found many dozens of photos that hadn't interested me much when I took them, but they're treasure to me today:

Two photographs of  K, in her 20s and glamorously turned out for B's wedding.

Today, in her mid-40s, K is in a hospital, fighting to recover from an unexpected medical disaster.

I IM'd the photos to K's partner, probably sitting by K's bed or in the hospital cafeteria, staying strong and taking encouragement from K's every incremental advance toward wellness.

I found a photograph of my friend M, in her early 30s with her daughter L, then two. I sent it to M, who was driving home with her husband when she received it after visiting L(now in her 20s ,and living in NYC) for the weekend.  M hadn't planned to go see L this weekend, but she had been missing L so much, she decided they just had to go.

I sent a photograph to P and L from 20 years ago.  "We don't look like that anymore," P texted.  "To me, you do," I texted back.

I found a photograph of my uncle G and his wife A. I suppose neither ever looked better than they do in that photo.  Anyone could be forgiven, looking at them, for experiencing a twinge of envy--not just because they are so attractive, but also because they are so evidently in love.  They are not newlyweds.  They have been married for over 10 years, have two teenage boys.  They had had several dogs and a few homes.  They have been through good times and bad.  And yet, there they are, gorgeous, and absolutely bonkers for one another.

G passed away unexpectedly from a DVT related to a tennis injury at 58.

I sent A the photo. She said she had never seen the picture before, and my timing was perfect. (I suspect my timing would have been perfect no matter when I sent it.)

I sent a photo of myself to my best friend in California.  I have crazy thick auburn hair grown out past my shoulders, and I am wearing a sleeveless jersey.  You can see that I tried to wash off the ink drawings cover my entire right arm, but the drawings are in deep and fading slowly. My bff had drawn all of them.

I sent her a photo of herself, too.  She's at Philip's Beach, with windswept hair from an Atlantic breeze.

"We had so much hair!" she texted.

"We did!"

I also sent her a photo of the kitten that is now 18 years old, curled up in a basket on my desk.

I sent another friend photos of her daughter and my son from when they were three and one year old, respectively.  The 35 mm photo hasn't aged an hour.  You might think that our children, now 18 and 16, could still be many years away from flying.

Photos of my father happily cavorting with my then-four and five-year old son will prevent J's memories of his grandfather from fading.

The only photo of my Basset-Lab  that accurately depicts the odd charm of her peculiar anatomy: a  Black Lab on short legs, with big, turned out muffin paws.  (How I loved her!)

Photos of me with my step-mother, step-sister, and step-brother--whom I continued to see after the divorce, but not nearly as often as I'd like.

Photos of F with my mother that reveal the great depths of their attachment, that developed without benefit of official social designations.

The list goes on, but these are the highlights.

Of course, my son doesn't appreciate how precious and important ordinary photographs can become, over time.  Nor would I want him to feel such a bittersweet affection for photographs, at only 16.