When the pandemic ends, who will we be?
Well, here we are, a few days into 2021, a year that couldn’t come fast enough after the Dumpster fire that was 2020.
It was a lost year and a year of loss, not just the more than 352,000 Americans who died — some of whom we may have known and loved — but also the lost learning, lost jobs, lost housing, lost vacations, lost celebrations, lost opportunities, lost relationships, lost dreams, lost sense of security, a lost sense of “normal,” the loss of things we took for granted as always being able to do, little things like kissing, hugging, touching, and gathering with friends and loved ones.
And it’s those small things, the ones we couldn’t even imagine ever losing the ability to do, that many of us are most eager to get back to as soon as we safely can — not go on a grand vacation or dine at a Michelinstarred restaurant (although some politicos obviously have done that despite lockdowns).
In our understandable rush to engage in feel-good social interactions, will we still be fighting for social and racial justice, to address the inequalities, to house the homeless, to feed the hungry?
Overwhelmingly what we mourn more than anything else has to do with people, our relationships.
Nearly 80 neighbors chimed in on a lively Nextdoor post that posed the question, “When this is really really over, what kind of party will you throw? Or what will you do?” Their answers speak to the intimacies we were robbed of — visiting family, hugging, gatherings, laughing and smiling in public places and, for one neighbor, a graveside celebration of her mother with her siblings and a chance to say the things they didn’t tell her when she was alive.
Well, that nearly broke my heart.
It isn’t a sentiment on palliative nurse Bronnie Ware’s nowfamous list of the most common regrets her dying patients told her. Still, telling a parent, a child, a friend, a partner how much you care about them and appreciate them is probably one of the easiest things we can do, and perhaps one of the easiest things we forget to do. Or don’t do enough. And then one day it’s too late.
Maybe a year of death and suffering, from COVID-19 to the murders of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor and so many other Black people, to the rise in hunger here in Marin and across the country, will change that. Maybe
we’ve had a wake-up call.
A fave podcast, “Death, Sex & Money,” recently asked listeners to share what 2020 has taken from them. One of them was the widow of singer-songwriter John Prine, who died from COVID-19 this past spring. “I miss just the small, everyday interactions that we had or those that we didn’t have
when we would sit in silence and have our coffee and look at the morning news,” Fiona Whelan Prine shared.
I know exactly what she means. The little things we do with others are often the biggest things we miss when they’re gone and what we remember most.
Yes, it’s a new year and yes, there are vaccines and yes, we’ll have a new president and yes, it feels like we might turn a corner later this year (I’m trying not to freak out about
the new coronavirus variant, which is now in California). I know that the experiences of the past year have changed us; they’ve changed me. I wonder what we’ll be like moving forward.
History offers some lessons. Some predict we’re heading for another Roaring Twenties, the decadent decade that followed the 1918 flu pandemic. By 2024 — yeah, it’s going to take that long — “People will relentlessly seek out social interactions,” says Yale sociologist
and physician Dr. Nicholas Christakis, author of “Apollo’s Arrow: The Profound and Enduring Impact of Coronavirus on the Way We Live.”
In other words, we will be buying like crazy and partying. Hard. And, honestly, who could blame anyone? Bring it! But the decade also exacerbated inequalities, and we have plenty of that right now.
In our understandable rush to engage in feel-good social interactions, will we still be fighting for social
and racial justice, to address the inequalities, to house the homeless, to feed the hungry? Will we appreciate the health-care workers and essential workers and the people who serve us food, stock the shelves, deliver our packages, clean our public spaces? Will we remember to let our loved ones know how much we care about them and appreciate them? Will we still savor the small moments? Or will we just be so ecstatic to feel “normal” that we forget about all the
hard work that needs to be done?
The pandemic has shown us how quickly everything can be taken from us, and that loss is ever present. That’s not going to change this year or ever. Maybe we’ve had a wake-up call. I hope we’re truly listening to it.