Sheltered from COVID-19, but not from vindictive tweets
Ihave never been so in tune with nature. Sitting “trapped” on my mother’s balcony in Florida from dawn ‘til dusk, I knew when sunrise was at exactly 7:11 a.m., sunset 7:38 p.m. I’ve learned that the sun does not rise and set at the same spot every day; it appears slightly more to the north over the ocean in the early morning and disappears differently as well, hidden by the tall condo along the Intracoastal. I see when the tide goes in and out, when the ocean is smooth as glass, or the waves crash angrily along the shore. I observe wildlife carefully, noticing what time of day seagulls and geese — now making their way back to my homeland of Canada — appear on the shore searching for food, and when lizards or iguanas or chameleons run around, rather than sit motionless under the shade of a car bumper.
I have never been so in touch with my own body.
Am I hungry now, or just eating because I’m bored or anxious? Am I nauseous because I’m ill, or because I just ate two bags of chips in front of the telly? Is that cough wet or dry? How do I tell the difference? And why was I coughing at all? (Oh, right, one of those chips got caught). Am I experiencing shortness of breath, or is my breathing irregularity because of the crazy thoughts running through my head? Is my throat sore, or is it just my neck, having tossed and turned uncomfortably last night? I’ve gained a pound, lost two. My eyes are tired from too much screen time. My fingernails grow at a faster rate than my toenails.
I have never been so in touch with my mother.
Granted, we got to know each other very well before this all went down, as I came to Florida back in December to keep an eye on the snowbird. But now that we are both here past our “best before” date — and spending all day, every day, trying not to step on each other — we have reconnected in a way that neither one of us could have imagined. I can predict exactly what time she’ll get up in the morning. I know what days she’ll stay in her room for “beautification” sessions, even though she is only doing it for herself (her endearing vanity at 88 is an inspiration to us all). I know when her hip is nagging her and when arthritis is flaring up. I know when she is hungry, and what time she goes to the “snack cupboard” for a pick-meup: pretzels during “Jeopardy,” chocolate-covered almonds during the 11:00 news. I can hear in her voice when she is feeling blessed and happy to be alive. Thankfully, that’s most of the time — Mom is one of the most positive people I know. I can see it in her eyes when sadness and depression kick in, usually during the aforementioned news broadcast.
Side note: Mom — at this moment in history, ironically — is probably having the time of her life.
She is being “forced” to stay put in sunny Florida. She no longer must schlep to the seniors’ center for exercise class. She can now pick up the phone any time of the day or night and actually get hold of loved ones. She has a son — me — who anticipates her every move, keeping her well-fed and companioned.
Mom feels guilty that she is having such a good time. Truth is, I, too, feel blessedly guilty for having such quality time with this amazing woman, who constantly acknowledges how much she loves and appreciates me.
I have never been so in touch with my community.
Or rather communities, plural. There is our local community in Hallandale Beach, where individual actions are now scrutinized, judged, applauded and damned all day long. Then there is my community of friends and relatives — in Toronto and around the globe. Those of us who have avoided social media like the plague (probably should stop using that term) are now embracing it as their lifeline to the outside world, and I feel like I know more about who’s doing what, where and when than ever before.
I guess it’s safe to say, at this point, that I have never been so in touch with my own feelings.
Fear, anger, betrayal, happiness and gratitude are a cocktail of emotions that are being shaken and stirred in my brain simultaneously. As cliched as it sounds, I truly believe that the key to survival now (besides social distancing and hand washing, of course) is to ensure that the positive thoughts — and there are many — overwhelm the negative. Thank you, citizens of the world, for stepping up and caring about one another. Thank you, friends and relatives, for being there through thick and thin.
And thank you, Lord, for the beauty You have created, which I can still see while “trapped” on my mother’s balcony.
The sky over Biscayne Bay, a deepblue paradigm of Florida in late March is an illusion. Sea gulls and other birds wing by while I swim.
The silky waters of the bay create soft waves brushing against the seawalls. Walking around my island, joggers run by me, impelled by their youth, evincing memories of when I ran five miles in the morning and played tennis in the afternoons. The ease of their steps evokes a bygone fantasy, a reminder of my growing fragility. Yet being outside is transformative, refreshing, imparting a calm that is only superficial.
Nothing seems amiss. However, being inside most hours of these forlorn days ominously implies an impending doom exacerbating my despair. We know not when the pandemic will end, if our economy will survive, if our destinies will transform into a new malady or a dystopic public health landscape, lasting years.
Home confinement often does not seem to be a great chore. My wife, Catherine, and I vacuum, cook and clean floors and toilets. We are paying our cleaning woman not to come and think that she might have been infected a month ago, when she had an incessant cough. After that, Catherine got a sore throat and a cold that lasted about eight days, bestowing its gifts on me for another eight. We had no fever, but I thought that we might have suffered infection. Now recovered, isolated anyway, and following all the rules, Catherine insists that it was only a cold. But, it wasn’t, I wonder if I could donate some plasma for antibodies to someone else who was stricken worse than I was.
But without testing, who knows what we had? Not being prepared for this crisis proves that we need government. People hate lawyers until they need one. People hate going to the dentist until the pain of a toothaches drives them to go. For fans of limited government, this is their come to Jesus moment.
Each day bleeds into another and since we are in the most vulnerable group, we get groceries delivered, avoid all people and frantically disinfect letters, cardboard boxes from Amazon, vegetables, lettuce, fruit, and canned goods. We wash our hands countless times each day and agonize over the tiny virus creeping up our noses eventually killing us, gasping for an elusive breath as our lungs fill with fluid.
Across America, deliveries are multiplying exponentially. Just like the virus. There is a newly involuntary languid pace to life now and that is not entirely bad. No running to meet friends for dinner, no lateness for appointments, almost a pastoral nature to things. Yet it seems unnatural, almost forced, like house arrest. A perversion of one’s freedom.
We cannot see our children and our friends except on video, but have each other to dispel some of the loneliness and anxiety. We drink more. The uncertainty is daunting; each day the stock market careens on a dispiriting roller coaster.
A few months ago, I watched a documentary on Bill Gates funding a new type of toilet for the Third World that uses fecal matter for energy. In 2015, he presciently spoke of the lack of preparedness for this very type of pandemic. He did charts and computer modeling of the spread and the danger. Our government turned a deaf ear.
I wish Bill Gates were president.
The country is floundering like a harpooned whale, a gigantic leviathan of the 19th century unable to meet the challenges of a 21st century monster run wild, abetted by a soulless Senate majority leader enabling his president’s malfeasance and mendacity. The president used his 5 p.m. briefings to campaign for re-election, considering his polling above the public health, contradicting his experts, blowing hot air filled with misinformation, boasting about the “great job” he is doing. And the members of his fearful, unthinking base are right in his wheelhouse. Really, does anyone believe him? A man who has squandered his credibility on mean-spirited vindictive tweets and name-calling for three years?
President Trump uniting the country or recognizing the truth is like asking a bank robber to give back the money after he has fled to Monte Carlo. A coronavirus of lies surrounds his handling of this crisis, not of his making but certainly beyond his ability to tweet away.
Something clearly is amiss.