As this roller-coaster of a year winds down – and up and down, and up and down again…until the clock ticks midnight on December 31 – I find myself once again reflecting on the viciously destructive psychological impact of this pandemic.
As I write, I am sitting inside a coffee shop in Arlington. And I am being smoked out. The door has just been propped open in an obvious effort to dissuade those of us who have pilgrimmaged to this rare open indoor seating area from staying much longer. I’ve been here for four hours, two others in the corners were here before me and are still working on their laptops. I hope I’m not losing friends by admitting that I left my house to spend time at an indoor, public space.
I’m diligently wearing my mask and the tables are widely socially distanced. And now the door is open, so they have upped the game when it comes to air circulation. All that is well and good, and I can’t complain. Please understand, I’m not complaining and am totally okay with being moved along at this point. I’ve gotten my four hours in. And they were WONDERFUL.
I remember how great it felt when coffee shops reopened with extremely socially distanced seating sometime over the summer, it was like a lifeline for me, perhaps sad but true. As someone who lost employment in March I have become a stay-at-home mother of a remarkable child, Eva (age 6 going on 16) with unique special needs – and a hell of a strong personality. I am lucky and privileged to have some hours to myself thanks to a dedicated nanny, but the catch is I cannot stay at home during this blessed respite. Eva doesn’t do well with divided authority. Thus, I have been on the run off and on since spring, cruising Arlington for places I can take my laptop and feel some sense of normality during this wild year. There have been closings and reopenings. And more closings and reopenings. I’ve called around to many a Starbucks to ask if that day they had seating. I’ve utilized outdoor seating as much as possible.
In the heat of summer, as now in the cold of near-winter, I’ve done a lot of living – i.e. insurance claim submitting/arguing, bill paying, checking on family/friends by phone, reading and trying to work on writing – in my car. But I must admit, when I can get to a socially-distanced, mask-required coffee shop that allows me to sit awhile, I guiltily celebrate. Coffee shop time allows me to physically separate from my house, take a much needed emotional break from special needs parenting, and enjoy some sense of social connection, however diminished it may be. And yes, I know how blessed and privileged I am on so many levels, to still be healthy, to have the means to employ a nanny and drink expensive coffee. To have a home, a car, and food. So many others are unfairly suffering in almost unimaginable ways.
As we try to round the current – and hopefully last – virus spike, I know I am not alone as I realize in ways never before how profoundly important public spaces are to mental health. I know that by coming here today, I have given myself a psychological boost that will very likely last me through the week. Entering this morning into a warm, cozy coffee shop where others were engaging in intellectual pursuits, not beside me but from across the room, brought a tremendous amount of comfort. Now, as the freezing air permeates the place, I understand and accept that I need to leave. But I wanted to get these thoughts and a poem down, that keeps surfacing in my head these past few weeks, to record for posterity how antithetical to psychological well-being this pandemic has been. And please understand that I am fully in support of all public health measures, including masking, social distancing and vaccinating. My greatest gratitude goes out to the healthcare workers and former colleagues who never signed up for this and have risen to the occasion beyond what could be reasonably expected. I am only angry with the virus.
2020
It’s 2020. Whatever you do, don’t be human.
If you see someone, walk away.
Treat them as those many years ago would have treated a leper. They are likely contagious.
They could kill you or someone you love, even if they are someone you love.
Don’t let them see your face or hear your voice fully. Mask up.
A person too close or without a mask may feel like someone pointing a loaded gun at you.
Don’t touch or hug – human contact is the danger.
When you see an opening, it will only remotely resemble how you remembered it Before.
It will be a watered down, sterile, institutional-like experience fraught with safety concerns.
Tread carefully. The ground will fall through again. And again.
Don’t complain. You have no rulebook, anyways, to cite to prove an injury.
The rulebook has been thrown out.
There is no place for fear in this shared storm.
So many others are suffering so much more.
Up is down and down is up.
Learn to tolerate. Grow used to the smell of hand sanitizer and cleaning supplies.
Don’t look to the federal government. There will be no coordinated, national response in this war.
Look to the scientists.
Don’t get sick, the hospitals may not have room for you.
Put your life on the line for your work, if you still have work.
Stay in your house, if you still have a house.
Stay in your car, if you still have a car.
Whatever you do, don’t be human.
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Okay…that was dark. There has been intense light too, in the form of way overdue social change. BLACK LIVES MATTER. Incidentally, we have also kept our democracy in the face of unparalleled threats from within. More light is coming. If you’re still reading, I wish you a much healthier, and happier, 2021.
Infinity Prose 