Post #1 — The Fear

I am writing this from my office in our home. The room is about 100 square feet, but right now it is all pretty squished, as about 90 of those feet are taken up by The Fear.

I'm about to turn 65. I have no idea if I'll ever be 66. I have five coronary stents, not so great lungs and I soak up germs better than a Bounty paper towel. My instinct tells me if the coronavirus comes by our door, unlike the plagues in the Passover story, it's not going to pass me by.

In the meantime, however, we go on in isolation, atop a hill in the country. It's a good place to be if you want to give yourself the best chance to survive.

I'm a writer. My sixth book is in a constant state of near completion despite some 40 years of work and research. The story of Alger Hiss and how he was wrongly convicted is my life's work, so there's an urgency to get it done, so if it comes to it I will be able to leave it behind. On the other hand, there's this crippling depression and the need as a journalist to take in all the facts my mind can absorb, watch every press conference, read every article, as if doing so, will somehow protect my health and my family's. That's the Fear, the squatter that has taken over my brain and my life.

We are homebodies by nature and profession. Thanks to my wife's ingenuity, we are well-stocked with food and goods. We're also growing what we can.

I didn't go to Vietnam. I'm of the generation that hasn't had to face "a shot fired in anger," as my friend Bill, a World War II infantryman used to describe it. We assumed we'd outlive our parents. Now I'm dealing with the knowledge there's a real chance I won't come close. Alas, I take no comfort in the idea of heaven. And while reincarnation sounds appealing at this point, and  I'd be happy to come back as a guppy, I'm pretty sure that once this is over, that's it. I'm not going to come back to see the Mets lose again (ok, there *is* an upside to this). I won't hear my wife's laughter, the dog's sweet brown eyes, sing along to "Rosalita" in the car or see the wondrous life my daughter creates for herself.

There's no stronger reminder of what faces than our daughter's bedroom door, which is closed to us. She is in quarantine, having returned in the midst of this from Jordan, where she was spending the semester and where she has devoted considerable time to helping refugees. We don't know if she has the virus. We'll know in a few days.

The agony and the anger is compounded, of course, by the daily news from the White House, not just the frightening numbers that rise like contributions on a telethon, but  the small-minded, petty, stupid, decisions that will doom so many Americans, decisions deliberately taken to improve the president's chances for re-election, where he can continue to reward his friends and punish his enemies. He has no other interest. Asked today what he would say to people who are scared, his thuggish response was, "I say you're a bad reporter." The message continues to be, if you die, it's your fault. As I write this, I turn on the president's press conference to hear Alex Azar say, "If labs say they don't have swabs, they don't know what they're talking about. They can get swabs from the marketplace," because that's what they are expected to do in the reality of this president -- spend their valuable time seeking out bargains, like my mother at Bloomies, and fighting with other states over who gets the swabs, or masks or ventilators first. The inhumanity is remarkable, yet a poll from yesterday said that most Americans think Trump is doing a good job. I wonder if they'll continue to think so in three weeks.

According to another Times story, the intelligence agencies warned Trump in January about the pandemic, but instead of immediately ramping up production of what would be needed medical equipment, he ignored it because he didn't want to spook the stock market and possible damage his chances in the fall. The administration also ran a practice test of its response against what it called the "Crimson Contagion." It failed miserably but did nothing. This isn't dumb politics; it's criminal behavior. Polls say that half the country thinks he's doing a good job, which only really means that Trump has discovered that all you have to do is show up on TV everyday to get people to believe you. It doesn't matter what BS you spout as long as you keep saying it. Bozo the Clown could appear with Dr. Fauci every day and garner a 55 percent rating. Maybe he has.

Contrast that to Andrew Cuomo's comment at today's press conference at about 25 minutes in, beginning first with, "I take responsibility," and then sharing his thoughts on how we have to remember our neighbors (ok, with the exception of Bill DeBlasio, in his mind). The words are remarkable in their humanity. Sue and I may be scared to death, but there's at least some assurance that the guy in charge of keeping us alive is doing the best he can.

So we're here, hoping to avoid being one of the grim stats that indicate that anywhere from 40 percent to 80 percent of the population might eventually be infected.

I look at my wife's sadness and know what she's thinking. We try to take a break from the news and thank goodness for every new Larry David episode (the government needs to mandate that he produce a 22-episode season). We hold each other a little harder at night. We take walks and treasure the time together. At night, when I can't sleep, I stare at the stars and at the mountain outside my window and paint their beauty into my brain. Or I read until the ambien kicks in.


I'm not sick. Maybe we won't be, or maybe some ingenious doctor will come up with a treatment that will slow the disease enough to prevent what is starting to look like a second Holocaust. We cling to what we can, while we cling to each other.