Post #20 - Dreading the Undreads.
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| Our mountain this morning |
I went to sleep around 1:30 without the usual desperate dread that has surrounded me like my own personal black cloud for much of the past month.
Is that good or bad? I'm not sure.
When I really dive into the dread, to figure out what is at the core of it, the answers are clear — my fears (not in order):
*Sue or Lizzie suffering in any way;
*my own death and it be a painful, drawn out, fearful one;
*Sue's sadness at my demise. (although our joke is she'd be on match.com in six months and barely remember my name after eight). She has gone to such lengths to protect me, and I can't tolerate when my dear wife suffers even the slightest pain or worry.;
* Lizzie catching anything when she does go out in the world;
* the health of people we love, friends and family;
*that our great president won't stay the course (just testing to see if you were still reading)
* that the book I have labored to complete, my life's work, won't get finished.
But there's another big component to it: the numbers I obsessively pore over and the people behind them, those in the ERs and the ICU, desperately ill and the medical people trying to keep them alive; people in their homes, sick but can't get tested, can't get into a hospital and desperate. I think about the people behind the numbers all the time, especially at night, and it's overwhelming. Of course, I imagine I'll be a statistic one day.
So what happened last night?
I can think of two things. One, in the morning I voiced what I have been thinking all along. If you this scene from "Network," it will be somewhat familiar to you:
I'm done being the victim. I'm pissed and I said so loudly (I urged people to do it themselves and tweet it and even created a hashtag #themadashellmovement, an idea, which like most of mine, sunk like a stone). It actually felt good, and I still recommend it.
And here's another way I look at at. Every day I survive is a big "Fuck you" to Donald Trump. I revel in that.
Last night was a warm one without a cloud in the sky, and it was a perfect night for star-watching. While my continuing effort to capture its beauty on camera was about as successful as #themadashellmovement, it was just the break I needed from the horrors. It wasn't only the starlit skies, it was the tinkering, the thinking, the figuring, just cogitating on something else that didn't involve terror or anger. It was good.
But me being me, it was also worrying. The last thing I want is to be inured to the numbers and the reality behind them. I don't want to get used to them as if they are somehow an accepted part of my life. I don't want to forget. How do you balance the coping and the remembering? How to keep in mind what is going on out there while also going on with your life?
Fuck if I know.
***
I love the suggestions on the helpful tips page about coping. Excuse me if I mix a few metaphors here, but one way I've been dealing with it is by viewing myself as a kind of general at war, with his army laid out in front of him on a hill and the enemy on the way. We also had feral cats in Portland; real survivors who never took a step outside without assessing the whereabouts of any possible predator in the area.
Or, as the old boxing trainer Ray Arcel used to tell his fighters, "Hands up, keep moving and watch out for the left hook."
So since I can't think like a cat, and I'm not a boxer, I'm the general. I am constantly assessing. Where are our weaknesses in the line? How can I sure them up? We have to go to the dump, but there are possibilities of contamination there, so we eliminate it. I need medication. How do we get them from the pharmacy without letting the virus in? Even on our walks, we're constantly keeping our eyes out. Someone is ahead, let's get to the other side of the road. Especially on the walks, this is an absolute necessity as we've noticed a certain laxness among people we've come across. Yesterday, a couple spotted us and began approaching us until we just backed away and they got the message.
When Sue was out with Flossie, a woman with her dog said, "Can our dogs say hello."
Uh, no. Yours is on a pretty short leash.
If they aren't going to remember, we are. I keep my eyes on my line and don't relax, at least not until the treatment comes, until testing comes.
Maybe then life will be somewhat normal then, when we can live with the virus without fear. When we can argue and do dumb stuff without regrets, treat people callously, take family and friends for granted, make fun of other's weaknesses, waste food, slag off our Facebook friends, hate Joe Biden, get irritated with family members, and just worry about myself.
Oh, for the good old days.
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