July 28, 2020
For the last four months, life has been slipping in and out
of focus. The joy stick that I control is no longer reliable. But that’s OK.
I’ve never really been in charge, anyway.
Charley and I were in Florida at our condo in March when
the pandemic hit. Life as we knew it shut down: beaches had yellow tape at the
entrances and sheriff’s helicopters flew overhead, looking for violators.
Tennis courts and golf courses were off-limits. All commercial establishments
closed, except for take-out dining. I ordered 100 masks on the internet so we
could venture out one day a week, clad in gloves, to pick up our groceries. Placing the grocery bags outside the front
door when we returned, we carried the items to the kitchen fully clad and bathed each item in a disinfecting cloth.
Isolating and remaining six feet from anyone we encountered, we brooded
feverishly over news videos, press conferences, and data graphs. Our neighbors
invited us to gather in the evening in masks outside (three feet apart) for cocktails and hors
d’oeuvres, supplied for personal use. Instead, we waved and began three-mile walks. When
we returned, we retreated to seats above the ocean, where the rhythmic pounding
of waves and whosh of dive-bombing pelicans lulled us into a hypnosis.
We
counted thirty-five tractor-size treads on the beach in front of us, left by Leatherback
turtles during their nighttime deposit of eggs. Fellowship came on the internet or over
the phone.
I need routine. I like to be in control. My new routine
consisted of letting go: sleeping later; foregoing my usual Kashi twigs and
blueberries to splurge on a “Big Breakfast” with pancakes at
the McDonald’s drive-thru twice a week; performing exercises on the dining room
floor instead of rushing to the tennis courts or the fitness center; watching
Governor Cuomo’s press conferences, whenever they came on; reading in a lounge
chair; preparing dinner at 4:30 p.m.; walking three miles at 6:00, when the
temperature dropped to 80 degrees; rediscovering old favorites on
television like “Out of Africa” and “City Slickers,” or new ones like “Ray” and “Million
Dollar Baby.”
Shortly after we started our isolation in March, I developed
a scratchy throat. I attributed it to the allergy season in Florida. The glands
beneath my jaws popped like miniature flower bulbs, and my sinuses sounded like pipes in need of Draino. There was no way I could write anything new, although
I had endless days to write. I was totally uninspired and lethargic. “We’re in
this together,” we kept hearing on television. Yet we felt like aliens. I began
sleeping in the guest room, hoping Charley wouldn’t catch whatever I’d
developed. My imagination ran wild. I Googled symptoms on the internet. I
discovered others were experiencing similar problems, a sign of the times. Virtually I had an appointment with our
primary care doctor, although I had no temperature. He called a prescription to
the pharmacy for my sinuses, which we picked up at the drive-through. I stayed
in the guest room till early May. Neither of us had developed antibodies,
meaning neither of us had contracted the virus.
We headed north to our home in Massachusetts in mid-June, just
before the pandemic began to spike in Florida, a result of Memorial Day festivities. We spent
two nights on the road at Hampton Inns I’d contacted. They assured me of their
cleansing policies following each guest’s departure and the availability of
baggie-only breakfasts. In South Carolina restaurants had reopened inside, but
we were the only ones for dinner in a Ruby Tuesday. Our waitress wore no mask
and seated a group of young people without masks directly behind us. We departed as quickly as possible. In Virginia, where everyone wore masks, we ate
outdoors.
The kaleidoscope of tragedies began to spin out of control. Deaths
resulting from the Corona Virus, racist inhumanity, violent protests,
unemployment and business failures, lies from leaders we were supposed to
trust, and our brother-in-law’s struggle with cancer, created an unbearable edginess
while we isolated at our home in Massachusetts. In Florida we had taken stock
and resolved to eliminate the fluff, creating a tight knot of two. We’d
resolved to try to control only what we could change and refocus on our
relationships, our attitudes, our healthy habits, and everything that inspired
us. Inevitably, the outside world crept back in.
Thankfully, we remained healthy, as did our sons and their families. We had income in retirement and places to call "home." Restaurants began to reopen outdoors in Massachusetts. Masks were
mandatory to enter any commercial establishment, which made us feel safer.
In late July, after two members of our local community tested positive, the golf course, tennis courts, and all restaurant facilities were immediately closed at the club next door.
Meanwhile, we
watched wild turkeys cross the yard, a wren nest in the wreath on our front
door, deer eat my hosta plants, and
an osprey adolescent venture from the nest its parents had remodeled last year. Roses overwhelmed our hillside in the heat, mimicking the hair that grew down over my ears. In a rear-view mirror I noticed the blond highlights on the back of my head had transformed into a cap of gray. I let go of lip liner and lipsticks. What was the point, under a mask? Simpler things became easier. I became gentler on myself and more forgiving, while around me I heard, "What a mess! What a mess!"
