Alone. Alone, alone, alone

Foraging for food has taken on a new tension in this surreal new world order. Never my favorite chore, now going to the grocery store means venturing into an enclosed space that could be swarming with hungry viruses. Certainly, the store is swarming with tense, anxious, fretting, hungry humans, all bent on cornering just slightly more than their fair share of the last box of whatever. Fear and greed make a frightening combination.

Yesterday, I prepared my purple rubber gloves, put a face mask in my pocket just in case I started coughing, and drove to the store, ready for anything. I put the gloves on and trudged to the entrance, keeping a wary distance, thinking to myself, am I six feet from that guy? Does it matter if we are both facing in the same direction, or is it more dangerous if we are facing toward each other? Wait, why is he stopping? Should I stop too, like keeping two car lengths from the guy in front of me?

Oh, no, can I go around this slow guy without getting creamed by cars pulling up to the front door to disgorge a horde of people of all ages who I assume are all part of the same COVID-19 death squad, wait, I mean, family?

I guess if you are all part of one COVID-19 pod, you sink or swim together. That is sort of sweet, in a Three Musketeers kind of way. All for one, one for all, together we die, although we'd have a better chance if we spread out a little. But hey, we're family, and family stick together, right? I wouldn't know. My family has always preferred being far-flung.

Inside the door, the cart arena was almost empty. Most of the carts were apparently out in the parking lot. As I grabbed one of the last carts, praying it didn't have a hitch in its gitalong, I saw the cart wrangler leading a caravan of carts from the hinterlands. Ah, replenishments. Now if only the shelves were equally as replenished.

I donned my purple gloves but left my face mask in my pocket. We don't need the mask unless we are spewing germs, right? I'm not clear on the purpose of the gloves and face mask. Am I trying to keep viruses in or out? This is so confusing. Of course, I don't want to transmit something to someone, especially if I don't know if I'm sick with something gruesome like a killer virus. If I am going to transmit something to someone, it better be for a good reason, you know, because I don't like them and want them to feel as wretched as I do. But I'm not sick. I don't think. At least, before I went to the store, I could say with some certainty that I wasn't sick. But who knows now. I went to the store. Who knows what I touched. All my zucchini and apples could be contaminated with viruses just waiting to jump onto my unprotected hands. From there, it's an easy jump to my mouth. Agh, I rubbed my eyes once or twice yesterday! I washed my hands, multiple times, and I wiped down surfaces inside my car, but did I wash up after transporting the zucchini into the fridge? Oh my god, I'm doomed.

In the store, I observed some shocking behavior, mostly from myself. I drove my shopping cart with purpose, making eye contact sparingly, as if minimizing eye contact equated with minimizing air space. I think I read that the virus needs prolonged contact to make the leap between respiratory tracts, so if I whizz by a shopper in the frozen vegetables aisle, I'm probably okay, right? Especially if I don't make eye contact. I can do this. I quickly filled my cart with all the items on my list. I was especially happy to see there were some boxes of facial tissue on the shelf. Bigger boxes than I would normally buy, but in allergy season, I've been going through tissues like, well, like the virus going through a crowd of drunken teenagers on a Florida beach. I grabbed three boxes because I was running low.

No lollygagging in the produce today, wondering what parsnips taste like. I made it to the checkout line in record time. As I waited my turn, I felt a nudge from behind me. The old guy in line behind me at the checkout, ungloved and unmasked and wiping his dripping nose with a tissue, seemed to be trying to push his cart past me, even though there was no space for two carts.

“Hi, are you okay?” I asked politely, thinking I could get irate, but now is the time for compassion, let's practice your promise of being loving and kind in this challenging new world.

He smiled and mumbled something. I realized English was not his first language. I nodded my head and started putting my vegetables and tissue boxes on the conveyor belt. He backed off.

The customer ahead of me wore a face mask but no gloves. He poked the credit card gizmo with his bare fingers. That strategy was exactly the opposite of my strategy. I wondered if I had got the whole thing wrong, that I should be protecting my lungs rather than my fingers? Oh boy. This apocalypse is confusing.

I did my best to show appreciation to the checker, an older gal who wore her glasses on a string. I wondered if I was old enough to start doing that and if it would help me cope with my trauma.

“I sure do appreciate you being here today,” I said as she started scanning my modest collection of items.

“Essential workers,” she said grimly. “That's what they are calling us.” I got the impression she would rather have been at home. Not much I could say to that.

“Oh, you can only get one paper product per household,” she said after scanning two boxes of tissues. She put two boxes aside. I forlornly bagged the one box that passed the scan, thinking, dang, I hope my allergies will be calm this week or I'll be honking into my fingers over the sink.

When I got home, once again there was no place to park. My neighbors have embraced the shelter-in-place order by taking all the parking spaces. Not only that, they seem to spend all their time doing laundry.

After disinfecting my car, putting away my possibly contaminated apples and zucchini, and washing my hands several times singing the Alphabet Song, I checked my receipt. Of course, I was charged for two boxes of tissue. I now possess a very expensive box of tissue, perhaps the last box of tissue I will ever be allowed to purchase, if the world of paper products implodes along with everything else. I should probably have the box bronzed or encased in resin or something, a testament to a time when we bought expensive products to wipe our noses and then discarded them into the every-growing waste stream that will eventually choke us all to death.

Tonight, as I've been doing for the past two weeks, I'll drive over to my Mom's nursing home, wave at her through the window, note how the pace of her decline seems to be accelerating, and drive home.

Well, on that happy note, I'm signing off from the Love Shack, wallowing in self-isolation, which for me is pretty much no different than the life I normally lead. That is to say, alone again, naturally.

Don't cry, it's just the end of civilization, not the end of the world

Today was a lovely spring Wednesday in Mt. Tabor Park. With all this extra time on our hands, and all this lovely sunshine after last week's bizarre snow storm, a walk in the park seemed like the thing to do. On Wednesdays, no cars are allowed to drive in the park. Thus, one day a week, the roads are filled with bicyclists, pedestrians, runners, and skateboarders. I walked diffidently along the park roads, rather than along the foot trails where I usually walk, making sure not to spew germs. As I walked, I watched to see if others were maintaining proper social distance.

I wasn't surprised to see families clustered together, walking dogs, riding miniature pink bikes, skipping and singing. I smiled at the little vectors of disease as they pedaled by, giving me sidelong glances. School has been cancelled for what, a week, now? Any moment, some of those little vermin will start to whine and cough. Wonder how that will work out. I have visions of virus sheriffs nailing doors shut, guns at the ready. These families walked near me, not three feet away in some cases, apparently not caring that I myself could be a vector of disease, a carrier, a spreader, a Typhoid Mary.

Lots of couples walked close together, some actually arm in arm! I can't look at television images of people shaking hands or kissing now without feeling queasy. It's the same feeling I have when I see old movies in which people drove without seat belts, smoked like chimneys, and littered without thinking. Eeewww. How could they have done that? I predict in only a few months, movies showing people snuggling and kissing will be X-rated. Images of men shaking hands will elicit groans from the audiences now too freaked out to watch movies with anyone else but still remembering how great it felt, sort of, to be touched by another person. No big surprise, the couples in the park ignored me as if I weren't there. Nobody notices old women.

In fact, the only park goers who stopped, stepped off the trail, or made wide detours near me were old women like me. We came close enough to make eye contact, but just a wary glance, as if we were assessing the risk of a rabid rush, a bite on the leg, a cough in the face. I smiled the thin-lipped smile I reserve for times when I am anxious but determined to acknowledge another person's presence despite my discomfort. I tried not to feel rejected or disappointed that my airspace was no longer tolerable.

The desire to make others feel okay is strong in me. My codependent nature wants everyone to feel safe and happy so they won't kill me. That used to mean smiling, waving, moving closer, patting, touching, shaking hands. Now taking care of others means avoiding them, shunning them, keeping my hands, voice, and breath to myself.

I'm finding some comfort in the stories of earth's ability to bounce back now that we have quit polluting the air and water. We thought it couldn't be done, that pie-in-the-sky climate agreement in which we cut our consumption so the earth can survive. Look at us now, cutting our consumption in half, at least. It's a sad but delicious irony that this pandemic will reduce the world's population and pollution load to the point at which some of humanity might survive.

Mom didn't have a great day today, I heard. She was asleep on the couch when I peered in her window this evening. Her eyes were closed; her mouth was open. Her dinner was untouched on the coffee table. I taped a little photo of a bouquet of daisies to the outside of her window, adding to the growing collection of clippings: flowers, a leprechaun, and my siblings faces taped to pink hearts. Then I just stood there and watched my mother breathe, as if I were watching a movie of a quiet peaceful moment in someone else's life.

The Chronic Malcontent does her part to flatten the curve

Last week I did a stupid thing. I went to the hospital lab to get my blood drawn for a cholesterol test I've been postponing for months. I guess I'm trying to check all the tasks off my list before the virus kills me. As I sat in the waiting room watching people who arrived after me be invited into the inner sanctum, I had some time to reflect (indulge in self-pity). I had some trepidation that a hospital might not be the safest place to be. Now looking back, my fear seems so quaint.

A tall, heavy young man came into the lab and approached the check-in iPad. He might have been Hispanic, Samoan, I don't know. Something slightly darker than pale. He looked like a wrestler. I noted his baggy red shorts and floppy team jersey. I bent my head back to my fingers. I missed the moment when he slapped the tablet, knocking it off its perch and sending the table sign flying onto the floor.

“I can't figure this out,” he said in disgust. One of the check-in staff left his cubicle and hurried to get the young man checked in. In an effort to distance myself from emotional drama, I moved to a chair directly outside the door I was trying to get through and stared at it, willing it to open and admit me so I could move on with my day. The young man took a seat to wait for his turn in the x-ray machine. My back was to what happened next.

“What's the problem?” I turned around briefly and saw two uniformed security officers flanking the young man, who now was on his feet, towering over both of them. I quickly bent my head and pretended I didn't exist.

“What? Why are you hassling me?”

“Let's go into the hall and talk about it.”

“What is your problem?”

The back-and-forth continued. I thought, this is how it happens. Arrogant people in power make assumptions in the name of public safety. Next thing you know, multiple people are dead. In a few minutes, the encounter was over. I couldn't hear all of it, and I didn't want to. I sat still, adopting a freeze and maybe they won't notice me strategy. We all survived. If that young man had been a few shades darker, it's likely the outcome would have been different.

After the drama ended, I meandered diffidently over to a check-in clerk, who looked up my check-in information and confirmed, yes, I had indeed somehow fallen off the list, so sorry. In a few more tedious minutes, I was invited through the door. Soon, I was punctured, patched, and on my way.

In for a penny. Time to address the next item on my task list. I headed over to the pharmacy nearby to get my second shingles vaccine. The wait wasn't as long.

“Getting it all in one arm, eh?” The pharmacist noted the cotton taped on my elbow. He looked like a young Ben Affleck. I could feel my smile returning.

“Yep. Luckily I have two arms, I can afford to lose one for a while.”

“You probably remember the side effects of this vaccine? Relax your arm. This will burn a little going in.” I looked at the ceiling as the needle went into my shoulder. “It can make you feel like you have the flu.”

I stared at him in dismay. No, I had completely forgotten.

“I think it was just a day,” I said slowly, totally not remembering.

“Hope so. Some people have five miserable days.”

My mother's nursing home instituted a no-visitors policy that afternoon. Despite my increasing muscle aches, I visited with her outside her window, scribbling and holding up notes for her to read. No, I can't come in because of the virus. I got a shingles shot today, ouch! I miss you. I love you. I'll see you tomorrow. No, I can't come in. 

Our visit was cut short when she pointed to the bathroom. I waved and walked away, loathe to watch my mother struggle in the bathroom with no way for me to help.

Regular doses of ibuprofen kept me going as the shingles vaccine ravaged my body. I moaned and groaned through two long nights and emerged on the third day feeling refreshed just in time to see the stock market tank. So long, IRA!

Now it's a few days later. The no-visitor policy remains in effect at the nursing home, and the staff are screened and masked. If that virus gets in, all those old frail seniors will drop like flies. I'm staying home from everything but visiting Mom outside her window, doing my part to flatten the curve. The two inches of snow we had yesterday definitely inspired me to lay low. Not to mention my near-constant allergy attacks. My brother says tree pollen, but I suspect indoor mold. The libraries are closed. I hear there are lines outside the grocery store. My sister is flying to Boston from France next week. I hope she makes it. I'm freezing and scared. I miss my cat. Every damn day feels like a snow day.

An acquaintance told me (on the phone) that she wasn't curtailing any of her activities. She gets around on public transportation. I pictured her boarding buses with her wheeled suitcase, spewing germs. Appalled, I said, even if you know you could be spreading the virus? She said she believed the world was coming to an end soon, so it didn't matter. I said lamely, well, at least your behavior is consistent with your beliefs. I wanted to say, I don't care if you are ready to die, but I'd prefer if you didn't take me down with you. But I didn't.

This might be the end of civilization, I don't know. I think we are seeing how fragile the veneer of civilization really is as people yell at Asians and hoard toilet paper. At some point, I'll have to go forage for food at Winco. Meanwhile, I will hunker down in the Love Shack, mopping my dripping nose and compulsively reading the news.

Stay safe, blogbots.