In praise of those who often go unthanked

At times like this, it becomes clear what matters most. Today is only the first day of our four weeks in isolation. It may feel daunting, it may also feel like an incomprehensible task, but our isolation now will mean we all get to see our friends and family quicker.

The prime minister’s historic order on Monday will have affected us all in different ways.

The weekend before, I decided to cancel flights to see my granddad for his 81st birthday. The official advice at the time was for over 70s to stay indoors, and I had a small cough. Normally, I wouldn’t have thought twice. The cough was minor, but paranoia is, as they say, ‘‘the new normal’’ (for me, at least).

My mum, who did make it down, described a surreal scene when she left. My nana opted to stay in the car at the airport. Social distancing prohibits goodbye hugs. And as she said goodbye, she said so truly not knowing when she would be back.

I played it safe. Better safe than sorry. That’s the way things are going to have to be now.

A few days later, any plans for the Easter school holidays were scuttled. Christian Masses, on their most holy day, will now be held without a congregation.

University students made last-minute dashes back home to escape the prospect of four weeks in their hovel flats. The cities now feel eerily empty. And as I’ve stayed put, to tend to my indoor plants, it’s unclear when I’ll see family and friends again.

In this time of alert levels, lockdowns, market crashes and growing uncertainty, I have been asking the same questions over and over: What is ‘‘essential’’?

And will my family and friends be OK? After all of that, I wonder, what will life look like when this is finally over? That’s a question I can’t answer. The other two, however, aren’t as bad and scary as they seem.

Some of us seem to think air rifles and a warehouse of toilet paper are essential items. In the past few days, there have been reports of panic buying at gun stores and a queue of more than one dozen stood outside my local supermarket all day, every day.

It’s easy to get angry at those hoarders, but it doesn’t do much good. I do feel bad, however, for those supermarket workers who are working with the same fear and problems we all face, but are also dealing with crazed doomsday preppers.

When hell breaks loose, we ask the most from people and professions who aren’t normally given the respect they deserve. We ask that they work longer hours, put themselves at greater risk, and deal with our stupidity. We’d be in a riotous state of anarchy right now if it wasn’t for the second-job working mums and dads at the supermarkets, or the early morning shelf-stacking students.

The bus drivers have kept going without complaint, making sure other essential workers can get where they need to be – and shuttling people to the supermarket.

Likewise, the work of flight attendants and staff at Air New Zealand has been inspiring but also heartbreaking. A video from London showed staff waving goodbye to the final flight as it brought Kiwis home from an increasingly unsafe Europe.

In New Zealand, airline staff are working through trying times to reassure passengers and make sure they can get home. They do this knowing that, in a week’s time, many will be without jobs. Air NZ alone plans to cut 30 per cent of staff, its new boss, Greg Foran says.

It’s such a dire situation that the airline’s emails to customers have pleaded with other businesses to hire their staff.

Even after this isolation ends, it’s obvious life won’t be the same.

We’ll need to look after those who no longer have stable employment. Many of those workers will have been the people, like the Air NZ staff, who got us through these tough times.

My local cafe, just downstairs, closed its doors for the last time yesterday. They won’t be reopening after the lockdown.

At alert level 3, the cafe wasn’t actually open. Instead, the manager had come in to give baking and anything else left in the store to neighbours.

We don’t say it enough, maybe because we don’t normally have the time . . . and now we have plenty of it. Thanks.

Thanks to the baristas and teachers, I’ll see you in, I hope, four weeks. Thanks to the journalists, politicians and bureaucrats. And thanks to the airline staff, the bus drivers and train operators, who continue to help Kiwis despite their uncertain futures.

Mad respect to the cleaners, doctors and nurses keeping us safe. And thanks to everyone else. See you after lockdown.