HEALTH, HAPPINESS AND HUMAN CONTACT
Timely lessons in the age of coronavirus
Living out the coronavirus lockdown has underlined what is for me a powerful and ironic lesson of this experiment in social distancing: Even as we stay apart for our collective health to prevent the spread of the virus, over the long run, our health and happiness will depend on how closely as individuals, families and communities we come together.
When on March 17 the church bells in our little French village struck noon, announcing the beginning of a total lockdown, I felt energized, optimistic. Yes, I’d be rarely allowed to leave my house, and yes, there would likely be soldiers patrolling the streets, making sure we obeyed, but we were finally doing something. With most people isolated in their homes, we would tackle the pandemic, flatten the curve.
But when five days ago the prime minister announced that the lockdown would be prolonged to April 15 at the very least, I felt panic. I had a sudden urge to just get out of the house, jump on my bike and pedal as fast and as far as I could. Miles and miles ahead, breaking the rules.
I didn’t go biking, of course. For more than two weeks I haven’t walked further than 0.6 miles, or 1 km, from my house, as stated by law. I haven’t seen my friends in weeks; I’m simply not permitted. As I write this, it’s day 17 of the lockdown for the four of us: me, my husband, our 7-year-old daughter, and a family friend who temporarily lives with us.
We are lucky — we have each other, we have a garden, a dog. But with each passing day, I feel the walls closing in on me. Here in France, we are only allowed out of the house to go to work, if it can’t be suspended or done from home, to go grocery shopping, in the vicinity of the house, one person per family at a time, to see a doctor, to exercise, or to walk our dogs — no further than that 1 km from home.
Each time we want to leave the house, we need to fill up a special permission form and sign it on “our honor.” There are fines for breaking these rules. The first time you get caught, it’s €135 (or about $145). For repeat offenses, the penalty can be even €375 ($405) and six months in prison.
Enforcement is strict. When my husband had to take our dog to the vet for an emergency visit, on a six-mile stretch of rural roads he passed two police checkpoints, and got stopped at one. In cities, it’s not just the police that keep tabs on people, but soldiers, too. Most French are glad for it.
My 7-year-old is getting antsy, too. The first 10 days, she was fine, even excited by the new “adventure” (her words). Now she says she would like to see her friends “for real,” not just over the internet. She misses her playground, and wishes we could go “just somewhere else.” I guess these are the feelings that infamously pushed some Spaniards to take stuffed toy dogs for walks. Luckily, most people in France are not that desperate yet. Maybe fear helps keep us in check. Even in my tiny village there are several confirmed cases of COVID-19.
When I talk with my friends in the U.S., in Canada, they often tell me that they are also “self-isolating,” so they feel roughly the same as we do here in France. But it matters whether you are staying home because you choose to do so or because the law tells you to. There is the lack of freedom, of power to decide for yourself.
However, it’s not all bad. In some weird way, I feel that the rules make the lockdown more liberating. I’m not suffering any more than other people along the Seine. We are all in it together.
This togetherness part is really something that keeps me going. In our local grocery store, even though some products are now notoriously in low supply, the shelves are almost never bare. There will still be one bottle of milk left behind for those who might really need it, two bananas, one box of eggs.
It’s a silly thing, a single bottle of milk, but it can truly lift my spirits. Apart from the few rule-breakers, we try to show we care. With money collected in the community, our local boulangerie now prepares sandwiches for doctors and nurses at the nearby hospital. We put smiley faces and scribble “Merci!” on our garbage bins, to show those who collect them that we appreciate their jobs, which overnight became risky (think of all the virusloaded tissues people throw out).
Suddenly, 8 p.m. is my favorite time