We have arrived in the first week of August 2020. Summer slowly made itself known, but now it is going to start slipping away. We are watching the tomatoes ripen, the baby Siskins are growing, and the hummingbirds fight with each other over the best feeder.
We also realize our old world is gone. We are not going back to "normal." The virus has its clutches tightly wrapped around the entire world. A stupid microscopic item that invades our bodies and wreaks havoc on every system. Lungs, brain, blood vessels. Unknown, but still there, revealing itself insidiously. It has blindsided the world as it crept into our consciousness and our lives in the latter part of December 2019.
I heard about it in late December and realized it was a problem. I often hear weird things that others don't notice. I had a profoundly sinking feeling as I was listening to the bits and pieces of the news. In the back of my mind, I heard my father's voice and it was warning the world. Being a doctor who worked around the world during his career, he knew and saw small micro-organisms' invasive nature. He was horrified when some researchers were planning to exhume a body in Alaska of someone that had died of the Spanish Flu or when they made the decision not to destroy the last remaining smallpox cultures. As a Doctor of the world, he was aware of the power of an epidemic. Every time there was a start of a viral outbreak, my dad would worry a bit scratch a lot, and then breathe when the feared outbreak did not appear.
With the news, I instantly overreact. When the first death hit Washington State, I mobilized. My leukemia and bone marrow transplant training went into overdrive. I'm an old hand at believing every single person carried some pathogen able to destroy Mary-Elizabeth and how to keep it at bay. Locking down was not a difficult thing—sort of like riding a bicycle. I know where to clean and what to wipe down. I don't feel bad about asking someone to use hand sanitizer when they come into the house and later to wear a mask. Never do I apologize about asking someone to exit my personal bubble and take their germs elsewhere.
I didn't rush out for toilet paper and water. I made sure everyone had ample supplies of things made in China. Medications for three months for Mary-Elizabeth if Trump shut down trade. Coffee for the early mornings. Good books less Amazon decided not to ship "non-essential" items. You know, the important things.
The Pandemic took away lots of the business out of our lives. I find such quiet times create space for long-overdue organizing. Sewing, reading, writing, baking, correspondence, long talks on the phone. Time to really figure out what is going on in the garden. A chance to see the myriad of birds that briefly visit but often go unnoticed. A big slow down. Nothing on the calendar but time.
It hasn't been easy for everyone. Many of our fellow humans are not very capable of spending time with themselves. It makes them frantic. I learned long ago that I liked myself and my own company. I also know I am blessed. I am lucky because I have someone with whom to spend this quiet time. I am even luckier that I like him as much as I like myself—the time is a good thing.
15 years ago, I remember what it was like to be the only one I knew that was in a bubble. I remember our calendar before diagnosis and then what it looked like after. Lots and lots of "negative space." The whole world continued to plan and meet and enjoy life's little pleasures. We were very much alone. I so remember those first few months of cancer treatment when it seemed endless. It seemed like it would never end. We had a 2.5-year treatment possibility, but then we knew there were years of follow-up and dealing with side-effects and the side-effects of the treatments for side-effects. I don't even want to think about Relapse, but that is an entire tangent.
For me, it is all about the unknown. The "what's next: when will the next shoe/piano/astroid drop??? You find after a few weeks, stress becomes part of your DNA. It hangs on like bad moss in a swamp. Not knowing makes everyone just a little bit crazy.
This virus has ahold of the world, and we have a long way to go. Promises of Vaccines. Promises of Control. Promises of successful treatments. It is all is too much.
I learned that I just needed to focus on the next hour, the next day, and maybe if things are going well. next week. No plans to be made. Just now. Just this moment. This breath. This glance out the window.
While the big world begins to shrink as people die, the observations of our view grew. Did you know that we have Goldfinches most of the time, but they are different flocks? The ones that spent the summer with us have fled. We have new visitors. They seem to have a slight British Columbia accent. They have stopped by for a few pounds of seed as they prepare to venture further South. We have fattened them up for their journey. They will soon
leave, and then those from way up up north will come for the winter. They will hang around and provide lots of good entertainment. Bits of flashy yellow and lots of chirps make the mornings special.
leave, and then those from way up up north will come for the winter. They will hang around and provide lots of good entertainment. Bits of flashy yellow and lots of chirps make the mornings special.
