Covid Cognitivus
It’s 6:15am and it’s raining again. April was full of the promised showers, but today is May 1st, and it’s pouring. I pull on yesterday’s clothes- yoga pants and a sweatshirt. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth and apply fluorouracil to my nose, which is red and peeling. “It’s a good time to do it,” my dermatologist had told me. “You won’t have to see anyone.” Most days, that’s true. Last night I picked up take out; my first time driving my car in eight days. But today is the big day of the week: trash and grocery day. I haul the wheeled trash can down to the road, then carry two contractor bags full of the remains of a project to finish a room in our garage. It was meant to primarily be a gym, but now it’s my husband’s office. He found he needed a place to go, out of the house, to do his work. I am already soaked so I change my jacket, check to make sure my mask and sanitizing wipes are in the car, load in my bag of returnable bottles and recyclable plastic bags and set off.
It’s 7:15. I pull up to the bottle drop off. I’ve attached a ribbon to the bag so that the workers know it’s been sitting for at least three days. I scan my sticker so that the door will open, allowing me to launch the heavy bag into the receptacle, but it doesn’t work. I try all four doors multiple times, but it’s raining so hard none will function. I put the bottles back in the car and drive across the parking lot, finding a spot to park halfway down one row. I grab my bags that need recycling, stuff four sanitizing wipes in my coat pocket, prepare my shopping list and pen, check my phone one last time and pull my mask on. It rubs the raw skin on my nose where the medicine has been doing its job. I am sixth in line, and stand in one of the red tape boxes, six feet back from the person in front of me. The system they are using for allowing people in is strange. When one person comes out, three are allowed in. My turn comes, I go in the store, shove the recyclable bags into the miniscule opening of green recycling can, scraping my knuckles on the sharp plastic edge. I retrieve my shopping cart, spray it and wipe it down and proceed into the store, following the green arrows that point me in the directions in which I’m allowed to go. The produce section is relatively uneventful, except I drop a pepper and it splits in half. There is no garbage can, so I set it on an empty shelf, feeling guilty. Everyone is wearing masks, a new rule. Eight days ago when I was here, my cashier wasn’t wearing a mask. It made me uncomfortable for her. Now everyone is wearing a mask, one employee is even wearing one of those clear, plastic face shields. For the first time in months, they have real toilet paper. This is exciting. Last time I had to resort to the kind that you fold over a bunch of times and you still wind up with pee on your hand. I’m limited to one package of six, and one box of tissues, but they have plenty of meat and eggs and butter, things that were hard to find early on in this crisis. My cart is full. I try to get enough groceries to last two weeks, but it’s impossible to have produce last that long, so the longest I’ve ever made it is ten days. I pull up to a check-out lane, second in line. I have forgotten an item that will be quick to grab. I leave the cart and follow the green arrow down an aisle with two men in it. I pass the first, giving him plenty of space. The second is contemplating an item. His cart is to the right and he is in front of it, taking pictures and sending them to someone for approval, I assume. I wait six feet back, clicking my pen in my hand, hoping he’ll stand back so I can go by with at least four feet of space, six not being possible. I hear the other man approaching from behind with his cart. He guides it past me, easily within one foot of me, then squeezes it past the other man. I sigh audibly, annoyed. What does he think I’m standing there for? But the other guy is still blocking the aisle, not getting the point that I am waiting, so I go past him, too.
I make it through check out. They pack all of my items into two carts, which are unruly to manage. One rams into my heel as I maneuver out the door. It’s still pouring. My paper bags are soaked and tearing as I shove them into the back of my car.
It’s 10:00 when I get back to the house, my garage door won’t open. I unload in the rain. My husband helps. I am annoyed that he puts everything on the counter, which I will have to disinfect. I take trips back out to the garage to store things in the extra refrigerator. I wash my hand and forearms. I change my clothes. Wash my hands again.
I unload the bags, sorting things that need to be disinfected, storing additional extra supplies in our dining room on the antique sofa. There is stuff everywhere. I’m annoyed and angry. Agitated. It takes me an hour to put everything away. I wash my hands. I start a pot of coffee. My kids have not eaten yet. I rub soap all over the fruit for the fruit bowl and rinse each piece, setting them on a towel to dry. I cook breakfast. I answer an email. All the while, I am thinking, I have no right to be angry or annoyed or agitated. I’m not a front-line worker. I’m not at risk every day. I don’t live in a high-rise apartment in a city on lockdown. I live in Maine. In a cozy house with a big yard and a short walk to a private cove. I have freedom of movement. My household has secure income. My kids aren’t immunocompromised. The rest of my family is from out of state but they are safe and healthy, too. My husband comes in from the garage and pours himself the first cup of coffee from the pot. Gets himself a snack. I haven’t eaten anything yet. It’s 11:30. Again, I’m annoyed. I remind myself that he woke up at 2:30 and went to the office to work. He’s the reason we have food and can pay our bills. I’m the reason the kids eat and learn. I’m the reason the house doesn’t fall down.
The first 7 weeks of staying at home were surreal. The next 7 weeks will be the same. I have dreams. Early on, they were nightmares. An abusive boyfriend from high school found me. He held me hostage. I couldn’t leave. After the third night of this I came half awake and realized that he was the coronavirus, holding me hostage. Making me feel trapped, the same way he did when we were together. Those dreams stopped. But now I dream of people I long to see. I dream that I’m driving in New York. I’m spending time with friends I miss. I go to hug them. We laugh when we realize we aren’t allowed to hug anymore.
I dream of my mother. She is sick and had surgery. She is confused. I want to hold her, but I can’t. Six feet.
The first few weeks were a period of adjustment. Cognitively, I knew it would be for a long time, but realistically it felt like it would be short-term. We adjust to having everyone home all the time, of being in each other’s spaces, of melding two different parenting styles. We try to keep everything the same but soon realize we need to change expectations. My daughter gets depressed. I get anxious. I get grumpy. I can’t wait to get back to normal but get anxious about what normal will be. I’m angry at our politicians. At conspiracy theorists on Facebook. At ignorance. I know that at some point, this will touch us personally. That makes me anxious, too. Who will it be? How will it turn out? I’m afraid for my children. I’m afraid for myself- if only because I can’t bear the thought of my children to facing life without me. I’ve lost my mother. It left me lost. Which friends will wind up bankrupt? Or will need to move? Downsize? Divorce? These are the rambling thoughts of one who is safe. Who is healthy (for now). Who is financially secure. And I feel selfish. I feel needy. I feel privileged that my problems aren’t bigger. That it’s not life or death here, yet. But if I feel this way now, how will I cope when that time comes?
I grieve the loss of the world as it was. I am anxious about the world that is coming. I am appreciating the beauty that is this time in limbo, appreciating the extra time with my children, the slower pace, the simplicity, being outdoors more. And the cycle continues.