.The Plague rages on across the U.S., with no relief in sight. People have apparently abandoned all social distancing and personal protection for the summer, and businesses have reopened. We, on the other hand, have hunkered further down to avoid the crowds. We continue our walks around town with masks at the ready, despite the heat, and still confine our shopping to once-a-week trip to the supermarket and another trip to the farm store.
Recovery continues: physical therapy has been downgraded to a biweekly schedule. After I had several 20-25 minute sessions on the stationary bikeat home, we finally ventured out to the airport, our usual winter cycling venue: it’s relatively flat, and has a number of short loops so it’s possible to park the van in a central location and put in a 10-km ride without ever getting more than 1500 meters from the van. Despite warnings to keep the first outings to 3-5 km, the rush was just too delicious, and we had a photo op to catch skydivers on final approach, so we pressed on to nearly 10 km. Had a bit of sore hip afterwards, but a few home PT/yoga sessions and a 5-mile (8 km) walk around the north end of town, from home, worked out the kinks.
Until early Wednesday morning, the day I was scheduled for PT. Judy woke about 3:20 am: “Larye! There’s something in the room.”
I was dozing, came awake to see a shadow flit across the ceiling. I jumped out of bed and rushed around the end of the bed in the direction the shadow had gone. Mistake. A twinge, but not the searing sciatic jolt I had experienced in mid-June that put me down, unable to walk for weeks. We turned on the lights. Nothing. Out in the hall. Turned on the light. A winged shape fluttered down the hall and swerved around us, a leathery delta with pointed wingtip. Not a bird.
“It’s a bat,” I said, as it disappeared behind me in the direction of the craft room. I turned on the light there. Nothing. I checked the windows. Our house is 90 years old, with the classic 6-over-1 bungalow sash windows. In summer, we open the window and put an expanding screen in. Usually, I put them in the top in this room, but Judy put them in while I was confined to the lower floor, and it was in the bottom. This arrangement leaves a gap between the sashes about the same size as the opening to the bat house we have up in the eaves above the window. That’s where the bat got in. But, it obviously wasn’t going to find it to get out, so it was in the house somewhere.
We closed the doors to all the rooms to contain the beast. When we closed the door to the craft room, Judy spotted the bat, perched near the lower hinge on the built-in storage cabinet behind the craft room door. I pulled the screen off the nearest window, grabbed a plastic container Judy keeps craft tools in, and emptied it. Putting the open box over the bat, I slid the lid down to make it let go of the hinge. It buzzed angrily, but let go, and was in the box with the lid closed. I leaned out the window and dropped the bat onto the roof below, then replaced the screen. Problem solved. The bat lay on the roof, but when Judy went to check later, it was gone, so it hopefully didn’t come to harm, and we managed to handle it without danger of a bite or exposure to some zoonotic plague. I rolled up a couple of hand towels and stuffed them in the gaps between the sashes in the two windows in which we had screens.
By now, it was barely past 3:30 am, but we were still adrenaline-charged, so went downstairs. I stayed up, with an ice pack on my hip, but Judy went back to bed eventually. The ice pack seemed to help.
Later that morning, we went through my PT exercises and in the afternoon, I went to the clinic for my session, where all went well. But, the sudden movement earlier during the bat attack and the soreness after bicycling was a wake-up call that I’m not completely healed and still susceptible to further injury, something my primary physician warned me about. So, dreams of quick recovery and taking some longer bicycle rides later in the fall are dashed. We’ll have to be content with short rides. It’s hard to ride from home, with the steep hills, so it’s a pain to have to drive somewhere to ride. But, there’s the airport nearby, and maybe a trip to the county park where we based our spring rides, but do the shorter loop instead of the usual 15-25 km figure-8 route we usually take, and the relatively quiet loop around Island Lake north of town that we’ve also ridden before.
We’re well into August, a full five months into the not-so-brave new world of COVID-19. Much of the world has settled into a new routine, coping with the pandemic sweeping the planet. A few countries, notably the U.S., Brazil, and India, are in various states of denial, while the disease and its economic consequences rage on. The outcome is not yet clear, but it will take doing something different than the current course.
In our personal lives, we’re holding our own. The government hasn’t stopped our monthly retirement stipend yet, and most of our medical bills are still being paid. We found out in July that our trips to the chiropractor for early treatment of my sciatica symptoms were denied: our provider was no longer on the preferred list. We did, in July, finally get our semi-annual dental checkup. The new rules apply: arrive at the appointed time, phone from the parking lot, after which the hygienist comes to the car, takes the patient’s temperature and asks the usual screening questions about travel, contacts, and health, after which the patient is led through the empty waiting room to the treatment room, removes the mask, gargles with disinfectant (a dilute H2O2 solution), and the exam proceeds more or less normally, with extra precautions, and the financial arrangements are handled in the exam room. Mask back on, and out the door.
My physical therapy treatments are progressing, and should conclude soon. The homework exercises are very much like our yoga practice had been, though much more intense, with 40 repetitions instead of two or three. We have resumed or normal practice, on the porch or in the living room, with the added moves. The weekly visits to the clinic add new tortures every week, but most now proceed without pain, except for the strain of using muscles correctly and strengthening neglected ones. I’ve progressed from hobbling along with my second (third, fourth?) hand walker on the paved pathways between the college and the high school to jaunts around the neighborhood, and, lately, to using our trekking poles to tackle the steep hills of the neighborhood. Which, of course, tempts us to wander off-road into the steep and loose forest trails. And, we did. Judy puts up with me, to an extent. So far, we’ve managed to not get injured a long way from the road, but I’ve come to an understanding that some of these adventures are not wise. The walks started out 1 km, 2 km, progressing to 4 km, and up to 7 km.
I’ve even progressed to driving again, though grateful for cruise control, as my throttle foot is the one that’s damaged, and this period of infirmity has affected range of motion on my ankle, the legacy of an old (1955) leg injury that healed while my bones were still growing. Ten years of stretching in yoga gained back a few millimeters of motion, which are now lost again. There is some residual pins-and-needles numbness that is persistent, but getting better week by week. We’ve been cautiously visiting with our son and his family every few weeks during this period: they’ve come to us, and we sit on the porch. This last time, we went to them, visiting on their patio. Having the opportunity to go to “the big city,” we decided to try shopping in person at our warehouse chain (Costco), to pick up some items not offered through the on-line shipping service. We’re not used to crowds, anymore, so it wasn’t an entirely pleasant experience. Unlike the local grocery, the aisles have not been make one-way, so dodging for distance is a chore. Everyone is required to wear a mask, but many pull them off immediately on exiting the store. We stopped at a Starbucks for the first time in five months, using the drive-through, a new experience also, as we prefer to go into the store with our own reusable travel mugs. The touch-less transaction with a phone app makes it seem a bit more sanitary and safe.
Nearing the end of my physical therapy, I had a followup visit with my primary physician. New rules as the pandemic surges in our state, and–alarmingly–particularly in our rural county, brought back more stringent rules on family accompaniment, so I got dropped off at the doctor’s office and called for pickup at the end: I would have driven myself, had we known. The rules change day to day, depending on the statistics. Same with the physical therapy. We’ve been used to having the person not being treated take notes so medical visits have always been a family affair: no longer, again.
But, with the medical ordeals nearing an end, I’ve gotten permission for light bicycling. Judy insists I do some test runs on the stationary bicycle before breaking out the tandem, so I’ve set up my old 1979 Fuji on the porch. It’s the only one that fits on the wind-trainer stand, but it’s fine for that purpose. Workouts are normal, without the traffic or hills of actual road work, but boring.
Having had limited excursions before my unfortunate confinement, and two months of very limited movement, other than trips to medical services and our recent walks, Judy decided we needed a road trip, which took us to our resort club facility in Birch Bay, near the Canadian border, where we spent two nights, taking advantage of the greatly-reduced tourist season to walk to the nearby state park on the bay, and, later, an excursion by car to the border, where we saw the impact of the border closing: the International Peace Park divided in half, with the Canadian side closed entirely and the Iconic Peace Arch, with its inscriptions of “Children of a Common Mother,” “Brethren Dwelling Together in Unity” and “May These Gates Never Be Closed” covered up, the entire 20-meter-high monument shrouded in construction plastic and fenced in [ostensibly for “normal maintenance”], and the common area between the approaches to the border checkpoints surrounded by construction zone tape. The border is closed, for the first time in over 200 years since the 1814 Treaty of Ghent ended the War of 1812. The U.S. Border Patrol kept a close eye on us through the darkened glass of their patrol vehicle as we retreated through the State Park parking lot back to our car, parked on the street outside the park. On the other side of the parking lot, an electronic surveillance truck continually scans the fence-less section of the border, six meters across the grass from the curb on ”0“ Street in Surrey, BC.
On Saturday morning, before checking out, we drove up to the Semiahmoo Spit and hiked the trails through the county park, out to the resort and marina and back. Other than three drive-through trips to coffee shops, and the seemingly obligatory review of our ownership status with the resort staff, we had no contact with others. On our walks, mask-wearing appeared to be a political statement, though we didn’t linger to ask the affiliations of those we steered clear of, masked or not: most people crossed the street or stepped off the trail to maintain the required distance. We had a properly-distanced conversation with a woman from Florida who, with her remote-working husband, are thinking of relocating permanently to western Washington, as a “safer” option to Florida. Most shops and some restaurants remained closed even in the height of the summer vacation season. Birch Bay, close to the border, normally enjoys visitors from both countries, so the lack of our Canadian cousins in residence was certainly a large part of the slowdown, in addition to the reluctance to travel among a large segment of the American population.
At home, we settled in, glad to be back, and probably won’t venture out again beyond our county until the meager tourist season comes to an end in cooler, wetter weather. We continue to go on our walks, which have been averaging 5-7 km (3-4.5 miles). We thought we would hike the Goldsborough Creek Trail near the Senior Center, and explore further up the old Simpson Railway, but the trailhead lot was full and there were a lot of people visible at the trail entrance, so we drove west up the highway, turning off on a side road to the rail line, then hiked down the rails back toward town. We were surprised by a group of pedal rail cars from Vance Creek Railcars that passed us. We hadn’t known they were back in business this year. The four-passenger pedal cars were spaced apart, with family groups sharing cars. We continued on, stepping off the tracks again as they returned later. We turned around at the railcar turn-around point, as the weeds weren’t mowed past that point, for a total of 6 km. Now that we know the pedal cars are running, we may take in that outing before the end of summer. It’s a 13-mile (22 km) round trip, should be OK within the guidelines for easing back into bicycling–I’ve been cleared for walking as much as I can, but restricted to short bicycle trips until completely healed up.
So it goes. The organizations to which we belong are adapting to the no-meeting, no-contact rules, planning video-conferencing meetings and programs to keep the spirit going. On a trip to the hospital laboratory for a blood draw last week, the receptionist, typing with gloves and enunciating through a mask, expressed exasperation, wishing for an end to the precautions. My response was, “We’re not going back, at least not for a long time. Things will be different in the future, but probably never the way they were. Meanwhile, we need to live the life we have.”
Chapter 11 of this journal series struck me as an analogue of the bankruptcy rules for reorganization. That’s where we are now: restructuring how we live our lives and interact with others. The season for hunkering down in isolation is over, an unsustainable situation. We need to restructure and reorganize, decide what parts of our lives and our economy we can do without and what parts need to be done differently. We’re in both a medical and an economic crisis. The country needs to pull together to reinvent ourselves, with a new “New Deal” to put people back to work, safely. It’s a chance to rebuild our infrastructure, with real public works, not a giveaway to keep people in place, and, despite popular opinion, it’s not socialism, either. Our current administration isn’t being realistic about what is necessary or possible: it’s time everyone realizes we are at the beginning of a long recovery that will take hard work and cooperation, not just an inconvenient temporary disruption.
The statistics are in: 4.2M COVID cases in USA, that’s more than 1 in 100.
And, with 145K deaths so far, that’s a 3.5% death rate, a pretty sobering figure, and 4 to 7 times higher than the naysayers would have you believe. The rate has been dropping daily, as so many more cases are added each day that the deaths haven’t caught up yet, a result of opening the country too soon and people not complying with social distancing and protective guidelings. And, probably the last accurate statistics we will have, since the administration has decreed that all reports must pass through what I characterize as the “Ministry of Disinformation” instead of the CDC, Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, as they have been for the 74 years of its existence. Science has become secondary to propaganda, something more dangerous than the pandemic itself. But, I digress…
What does this statistic from late July 2020 mean for us, the proletariat?
If you go to a gathering with 50 people, odds are 50/50 that someone in that crowd has a known infection. Because testing is so spotty, we don’t know how many unknown, asymptomatic infections are out there, we we have to assume that the number of infected is double the confirmed cases, so that there will most certainly be one person in the room with the virus. It is well known that the virus is highly infectious in closed spaces with no masks, and we assume that in a gathering of that size, there will be a lot of eating and drinking and face-to-face conversations, with mingling, sans face covering.
Assume everyone gets exposed. With the above numbers, about one in 25, or two of you, will die, probably within a month. During the next two weeks, before symptoms become apparent, the more social of the group will go to other gatherings, infecting those as well. More deaths. The open, no mask gatherings we saw on July 4, Independence Day, are starting to bear the fruits of exponential expansion, with temporary morgues–refrigerator trucks full of bodies–filling up hospital visitor parking lots, and ICU units overflowing with COVID-19 patients in the states that declared victory over the virus and relaxed caution.
Are we starting to get the picture? Are you willing to draw the short straw and be one of the casualties? Or, are you willing to accept the burden of killing one of your friends? Which one of 25 of your acquaintances will you not miss, given a choice, which you won’t be. It could be your bestie. It could be you.
And, among the survivors, frightening statistics are beginning to emerge: this virus, like the viruses that cause herpies and AIDs, as well as like bacterial infections like syphilis and borreliosis (Lyme disease), and eukaryotic parasites like Entamoeba histolytica and Endolimax nana, that cause amoebic dysentery, and Giardia lamblia,cause of giardia, has associated long-lasting, if not life-long disabilities, neurological and physical.
Stay home, Skype or Zoom, and wear a mask when you go out. Sorry, not sorry, it’s the new normal. Your ancestors, 2, 3, or 4 generations removed, put up with this 100 years ago, for two or three years, 1918-1921, with masks and social isolation. Still, a lot of them died, but fewer and fewer in areas that “got it” early and stayed the course. It was a hard life for the survivors: orphans, widows, and widowers, with displacements from lost homes and lost jobs, that affected them the rest of their lives, passing on fears, frugality, and lack of financial opportunity to successive generations. My own family is a case in point:
My grandfather was one of those who didn’t make it in 1918. He was 31, an active and social guy, who loved to hunt with his buddies, a successful farmer, in line to inherit his widowed mother’s farm. He left behind a widow and three children, who survived, but who were left to their own devices. [Edit: I had assumed that the farm passed to another relative, but the disposition of the farm is not known for sure. None of the other brothers appear to have acquired interest in the family property. Records have come to light that are inconclusive, only mentioning sale of livestock from the family estate in the early 1940s.] But, the family was forced to move hundreds of miles to a hard-scrabble existence. One of those children was my mother, who grew up poor. Although she did have a stepfather, he was physically abusive to her older brothers, and, he, too, died young, leaving her mother and now five children to face the Depression alone. With such an early life, she and my father, who also grew up in a one-parent household, were frugal and cautious in financial matters, a trait passed on to my generation.
For my family, the 1918 pandemic and its aftermath created hardship that lasted for nearly 45 years, and the rest of my grandmother’s life, before we could call ourselves middle class, but just barely, and which created a family tradition of living on the edge.
In this pandemic, the most vulnerable are the elderly, but it spreads most easily among the young, where the death rates may be less, but the side-effects of this ravaging disease, which is not related to the 1918 influenza virus, are debilitating and life-long. And, the Depression is not 10 years away, as it was then, it is here now, caused by the pandemic itself and the inadequate disaster response. Recovery needs strong hands and clear minds, and a population willing to pick up the pieces and move forward, together.
So, we’re hunkered down, even more than we were in the early days, when the streets looked like Post-Rapture in a religious community: we were among the few wandering down the middle of once-busy streets. Now, we’re almost afraid to drive anywhere for the suddenly frantic, dense traffic.
The Re-Open America movement seems to have been interpreted by a large segment of the public as the end of the ‘Rona, ignorant of or openly defying the mandatory masking-while-shopping order. Wearing a mask in public seems to us as distinctive a mark in Trump’s America as an armband with a six-pointed star was in Hitler’s Germany, marking the wearer for bullying and intimidation. The non-mask-wearing public also tends to not observe social distancing, and some–according to a recent, disturbing news item–assert their right of non-compliance by wearing and even brandishing firearms.
It is a fact that masks are most effective if everyone wears one. But, the land of the Free [from, rather than to], where a large percentage of the population interprets that as “You can’t tell me what to do,” and the Home of the Brave, where Bravery comes down to “Hold My Beer and Watch This” foolhardiness, rather than actual acts of bravery–putting others’ safety before your own–it is no wonder that the United States has the highest number of infections of any country, no matter the technological and economic sophistication.
As the pandemic continues unabated, it is no longer possible to remain in isolation: machines break, medical exigencies happen. We have to replace or repair appliances and transportation, and seek medical attention when necessary, all of which means venturing out to shops and clinics, with the possibility of exposure.
As we broaden our contacts, we face the realization that our social interactions, face to face, no longer have the advantage of reading facial expressions or even holding an image of the persons with whom you come in contact, especially those you haven’t met before the Troubles. Summer makes it worse, since we wear sunglasses or photochromic eyeglasses,so even our eyes are hidden. We decided we needed to compensate for that in a small way, by making 2“ button pins with our full-face photos on them. That was relatively easy: we bought a bag of a dozen clear plastic buttons, photoshopped1 selfies to remove the background, sized, printed, and cut to fit.
We also rummaged through our fabric stash, left over from Judy’s quilting business of the ‘00s, to find fabrics that reflect our interests and activities, as a further means of showing our uniqueness as persons. In fact, mask-wearing has launched a whole new category of logo-wear as businesses and startups begin to adapt to the new reality of the new decade. Today, we saw the first example of custom T-shirts with the wearer’s “true face” printed on them.
No, the old economy isn’t coming back: we are evolving into a new economy, with custom manufacture of personalized protective wear and fashion accessories, increased demand for package and food delivery persons and warehouse workers to package orders, and bistro-style restaurants, with limited seating and intimate settings for private dining. Small local stores stocking high-demand items will compete with big-box stores by offering delivery in minutes or hours instead of days or weeks from on-line megastores and off-shore internet presences, and no lines for in-store shopping.
I remember grocery stores, before supermarkets, before Amazon and the Internet, where you stepped up to a counter and gave the clerk a hand-written list, from which the store staff would fill your order, knowing which of the narrow aisles and tall racks behind the counter held the items. Sometimes, the order would include a live chicken in a returnable cage, which would be taken home, dispatched in the back yard, plucked, and dumped in the pot still warm, when the somewhat unreliable refrigeration consisted of an icebox, that was kept cold with an actual block of ice, cut from the frozen river in winter by hand and kept insulated in sawdust and hay bales through the summer at the ice house down the street from the grocery. Electricity for the town came from a small hydropower facility on the river, augmented by diesel, and then natural gas, and then larger regional coal-fired power plants as electric appliances became more available and affordable.
This was a modern marvel, having previously lived in a farm house with no access to ice and no electricity. The skies were clearer then, and winters colder. But, children got polio, and whooping cough, and scarlet fever, all of which could cripple or kill. Eventually, those became distant memories, through science. but we did everything possible to avoid them while it mattered. But, science and big business also brought us pollution and global warming from fossil fuel consumption, as people forgot how to live simply and consume less. We may get back to that life style in the coming years, but the live animal markets aren’t coming back, considered the source of the pandemic outbreak.
The very nature of work is changing, with more opportunity for at-home work, which isn’t necessarily 9-5 office hours. Over the last two decades, many businesses that deal in individual productivity have experimented with flexible work hours and “core time” mid-day when face-to-face meetings are held. That concept becomes extended with the idea that the work day may be broken up into short high-productivity segments with gaps, making hourly accounting as a measure of value a difficult, if not irrelevant metric for compensation.
Case Study: Between 2010 and 2014, I operated an at-home business, on an on-demand work schedule, with tenth-hour billing, breaking up my “work day” into segments ranging from a five-minute phone call or email response to an hour or two of intense concentration on a problem solution or coding session, interspersed with running errands, cooking, cleaning, going for a bike ride, or traveling the country, working evenings and early mornings from a motel room, campground, coffee shop, or public library, anywhere with a reliable Internet connection. At home, the “work day” might range in drips and spurts between 5:00 am and 9:00 pm, rather than sitting in a cubicle from 9:00 am to 5:00 pm with a similar “busy time,” and yield only one or two actual billable hours. In-person, face-to-face interaction with colleagues and clients might be a few days every two or three months, with a whirlwind intense schedule of back-to-back meetings, one-on-one and in groups, and working lunches to maximize on-site time to justify two days of travel to a “workplace” 1000 km from home.
The compensation model was based on billable hours, but at a rate that reflected results obtained rather than time spent “in the building,” and the fact that the job didn’t occupy expensive square footage, furnishings, and equipment in the employer/customer facility. Rather than working 40 hours a week, my billable time ranged from 2 to 10 hours a week, with annual revenue reduced to one-third to one-half of full-time work, but also reduced overhead for transportation, meals, and wardrobe, and offered a much richer home and family life. Plus, I had income from other sources, choosing a semi-retirement status. I was free to work on other revenue-producing projects that reflected my professional interests rather than the interests of a single employer, another incentive to bill on fractional hours. I could work on one client project and switch accounts to take phone calls or work on an exigent problem for another during a single work session and bill fairly. I established that pattern while working customer support for a software company back in the early 1990s, a practice that made more work for the company accountant/timekeeper, when the tracking was just to justify fixed-price support contracts, rather than actual time and materials billing. But, in retrospect, I worked too cheaply during my consulting period, as rates for government contracts were based on the cost of full-time on-site contract fees and didn’t reflect the value of on-call services. Also, I should have used at least a quarter-hour minimum to cover reporting and prep time, rather than actual contact time for those $5 one-liner code fixes, of which there were many. Calls may have occurred anytime during the day or night, and required some off-line follow-up, especially if they interrupted other billable work.
Thus endeth the lesson for the day: things will be hard, in the coming months and years, and things will be different. Some of us have paved the way, and adapted already. But, looking back through history, things have been worse, and will likely be again. But, we, as a people, will survive and continue to grow and encounter and overcome other hardships. Some of us, as individuals, will not, but the rest need to carry the torch forward. Give new generations hope, don’t doom them to a cautious existence, or teach them to lament what might have been. It is what it is. Accept the challenge. We in the older generation have gone from kerosene lamps, outhouses, spring houses and cisterns instead of refrigerators, party line phones and AM radio to television, computers, on-demand video, and jet travel in our lifetimes. We’re living proof that you can be happy with a lot less, and realize that very little of “modern life” is actually necessary. What is necessary is avoiding disease and injury. Be safe, be well, keep busy.
1 We don’t use the Adobe Photoshop product, but, like Kleenex, the most popular brand name that has become the common name for facial tissue, so has the brand name for image editing software: “GIMPed” just doesn’t sound as prestigious, and isn’t as recognizable.
As my “confinement” passes into another month–the entire month of June, lost–and the pill bottles count down to the half-way mark, it’s twitchin’ time. The searing, aching, crushing pain is gone, with little echoes from time to time. But, there is that nagging discomfort, a restlessness, something not quite centered, a vase teetering on the edge of the table, a squeaky door hinge. Part of it the tapering off the little bitter pills. The dosage started with six pills for a few days, then 5, 4, counting down to a race between the tortured sciatic nerve and whatever is doing the torturing. The other, an orange capsule that threatens seizures if stopped too quickly, clouds men’s minds more effectively than The Shadow’s powers, suppressing those faulty warning signals, but making time fluid and washing out the details, not being smart enough to tell brain cells from pain receptors.
I have a Physical Therapy appointment. I’ve had the physiology lesson several times now. I finally understand that I don’t have a broken leg, twisted ankle, sunburn, bursitis, frostbite, or The Bonk (a bicyclist term for very painful lactic acid poisoning in the legs– preventable with proper nutrition and hydration, inevitable if you continue to ride on empty). These are all things that that right leg has experienced over its 76-odd years of existence. It’s like the nerve has shut down, so the brain, not knowing what to do, plays back the entire archive of sensations of what could have gone wrong, all at once.
As usual, I have a surprisingly normal range of motion with surprisingly little pain in the exam room. It must be the heat, I say. It’s always warmer in these places. But, I get assured that yes, I do have a problem, and it will resolve more quickly if I do these odd exercises in exactly the precise manner shown, and don’t do anything that might aggravate that nerve bundle, now or before my allowed visits are up. The therapist looks at my spiffy blue second-hand walker chair, at me, and says, “That’s so not you.”
“Yeah, it’s my ride, for the summer. I posted that on the senior bicyclist forum. I’m not going to get to ride the bike this summer am I?”
But, I can walk, when I improve, and we had become rather fond of our footloose explorations around town this spring. It’s all good. So, off to home, with homework. It’s easier to get in and out of the car this week, but a lot of movement makes me antsy. My foot goes numb. I’m a bit loopy from the drugs. The clocks run too fast.
We have directions. A couple of exercises are unfamiliiar, and, as I had suspected, the ones we knew, we’d been doing wrong for the past 10 years. Our yoga group isn’t certified, it’s just volunteers, and we don’t watch each other and critique for style. Plus, some of the exercises are modified versions of the asanas we perform in our practice, and have a more precise movement and posture for maximum benefit.
A month of sitting and sleeping in my recliner, which I had more or less bequeathed to Judy early in the year after one of our living room cleaning/rearrangements. It fits her better. Six years ago, she bought it for my recovery from heart surgery, and I slept in it for two months back then. It doesn’t get flat, and it’s custom-molded to someone else’s body, somebody much shorter. It’s like sleeping in a dumpster full of rags and boxes, but better than a concrete door step. We’re at the start of the second month this time.
Without much to do, the druggy loopiness is taking its toll. I endure being waited on: Judy mixes my turmeric/protein latte just fine, but the preparation has been part of my morning ritual, as much as drinking the strange concoction that has started my day for the last few years to keep the pain and stiffness of creeping old age at bay. Preparing coffee and meals had been my job, before. At least I have the rolling walker chair, so I can help with the prep now and then. But, I miss the stirring, flipping, careful timing, and getting the flame just so for the right temperature. And the oven is off-limits. Judy makes awesome cookies and bread, but I miss my Italian-style rustic loaves, too, and the pita and naan, which takes bending over into a too-hot oven.
When it’s nice out and not too windy, we sit on the porch at the table that put me in the walker. It’s pleasant, a place to feel the air and watch the deer graze through the yard, and listen to the birds in the trees. We eat lunch, drink coffee, and read a bit. Our grandson arrives, displaced from home on the house-cleaner’s day: his job is to help run the errands I can’t do, like finally dispose of the microwave oven we replaced on the very eve of the shutdown. It sat on our porch like a prop for an episode of Hoarders, for three months. Our basement is filling up with Costco shipping cartons, which need to be broken down to fit in our recycle can, as the service no longer handles tied bundles of oversized cardboard, strictly hands-free collection. The New Normal touches all aspects of life in the ‘20s.
The recycle bin was already full, so we spend the afternoon playing board games, instead. The quarantine goes on: to get through this, I think everyone who is isolated should choose a pod pair, another neighbor or relative who doesn’t mingle socially or have a service job, who is unlikely to get the ‘Rona or spread it; get a foursome together and play cards or board games. The senior center is opening next week; masks and gloves required at the card tables.
But, that’s mingling. I’m talking about being able to remember the good old days when you could see a smile. We’re learning to read expressions in people’s eyes, but we’d like to watch for that tell, the little twitch at the corner of Myrna Whats-her-name’s mouth when she has three of a kind, unmuffled laughter when someone lays down an unexpected winning hand. You know what I mean, to remember back when America was great, before the red hats that said it wasn’t, before neighbor turned away from neighbor on the street because of what we might infect him with: germs or ideas–both are dangerous. My drug-addled brain has come up with a plan: get big buttons, like the campaign buttons, and put full-face selfies on them, to wear so people can see what you would look like without the Teddy Bear’s Picnic disguise. Eventually, we’ll all have bluetooth chips to transmit our real face to the other person’s augmented reality glasses. Maybe by the next pandemic.
For now, the conspiracy theorists are certain the phone-trackers that identify nearby virus-carriers will strip them of their precious guns.
Meanwhile, the current pandemic surges, fueled by that great American remedy for uncertainty and tension: to go shopping, to mingle at the club or neighborhood tavern, to party at the beach, or to go the stadium and cheer for your team. Civil unrest brings another uncertain mingling, with an undertone of violence and helter-skelter that a breeze could turn into a conflagration. The curves on the graphs angle upward once again. Medical facilities brace themselves, check supplies and contingency plans, while the country plunges forward into the darkness ahead.
“Who knows what evil lurks in the minds of men? The Shadow knows…” Time for one of those orange things and the dwindling count of those bitter ones. Quickly, the clarity is starting to set in, and the morning news is coming on…
What a difference a week makes. At the close of last week’s diatribe, we were optimistically hopeful that our personal lives would be isolated from the collective madness sweeping the world and that the physical issues would soon resolve so we could go on with our modified adventuring. And, it looked so: I was told by my doctor that no new tests were warranted, and the chiropractic session went well, I began to walk farther, with only one hand on the cane, and even tried sleeping in a bed, though the chair worked better, yet.
After a short venture from home on Wednesday, I was emboldened to accompany Judy on a longer walk on Thursday, a nearly 3 km loop, leaving me with more of a limp by the time we shuffled up the hill to our bungalow on the first bench up the hill known as Angleside, not for the steep grades, but for the developer, Grant Angle, founder of the Mason County Journal and the Angle Insurance Agency, in the 1890s.
We decided to get a bigger table for the porch, so we could enjoy outdoor visits with family in the summer. We found a sturdy office break room round table at Habitat Restore, which was perfect, and only $20. We wedged it into the truck on top of the bed and against the bicycle, and went home. Unpacking, maneuvering around the cars, and up the sidewalk went well, until the second step up to the porch…
Now, I’ve touched 120 volts 60 Hz AC, a strong reminder to not grab there; I’ve taken 450 volts DC, which blew me across the room and against the wall, and left a tiny burn on my finger. But, this was like stepping on a 440-volt 400 Hz AC main line: a twist and pull with weight on the right leg pinched my sciatic nerve hard, sending a jolt from hip to toes, and the pain didn’t stop. My “broken leg” sensations intensified.
Judy managed to get the table the rest of the way up the stair by rolling it end over end, and I ended up with a fitful and sleepless night in my chair. Exhausted by morning, I took one of the left-over opioids from the emergency room visit and slept for an hour or so in bed, waking with excruciating pain. After consulting with the call-in line at Kaiser, we headed for the Urgent Care in Olympia. Walking gave out 10 meters from the entrance, so Judy commandeered a wheelchair to get me into the building and down the hall. The pain subsided long enough to get processed in and interviewed, with minimal hands-on exam. The doctor prescribed a bit stronger anti-inflammatory, Aleve (naproxen sodium), the nurse gave an injection of Toradol, a strong anti-inflammatory only administered in medical facilities, and I went home, still in pain, wheeled out to the car.
By the time we got home, I couldn’t walk, even with the cane in both hands. Judy brought a chair down to the end of the sidewalk, and I bumped a few inches at a time, holding the chair, to the stair, then scooted up on my backside, then pulled myself into the house with the help of a chain of dining room chairs for support.
By 1:00 am on Saturday, I was writhing in pain on the floor. Kaiser 24-hour hot line advised returning to the Urgent Care, which we did, first thing in the morning: Judy pushed me to the end of the sidewalk in an office chair, and dropped me off at the clinic door, returning with a wheel chair. After announcing I was returning for pain management, I was quickly ushered in and finally given a fairly thorough examination, which more or less identified the locus of the impingement (not in my spine, thank goodness), assurance that most, if not all, the pain was referred and not due to any physical trauma, even if it had felt for three weeks like I had a broken leg. I was given an injection of a powerful painkiller, again, hospital use only, and a prescription for a cocktail of heavy-duty anti-inflammatories and non-narcotic and narcotic pain blockers, with a month-long schedule for building up and tapering down dosages of each, with narcotic use to be at a minimum, for as short a time as possible.
On the way home, we picked up a walker I had spotted at the thrift shop on our Thursday walk, for $30, a bargain for a $100 piece of durable medical equipment, and it was the perfect size and in fair condition (sticky brake cable). That walker has been my transportation in the week since, no doubt speeding recovery and contributing to comfort: bathroom trips no longer end in agony by the time I get back to my chair prison. But the carefully metered massive drug doses do, as the Huey Lewis song goes, “Make me feel nine feet tall, … make me crash my car.” As if I could actually make it to the car without collapsing. Ditching the opioids after four days led to two days of erratic sleeping, munchies, uncharacteristic thirst, and generally feeling like an indigent addict sleeping on the street. I did manage to help in the kitchen a little bit by Wednesday, thanks to the walker.
So, it looks like we’re in this for the long haul, taking care of each other through better or worse, and accepting that convalescence from the rigors of life may take more time and not come back 100%. I’ve managed to cob together, with Judy’s help to scrounge through my pack-rat collection of wood scraps, a makeshift lap desk to make computing from the recliner comfortable, and we’ve temporarily at least removed rugs and runners to make wheeled traffic easier. Our plan to stay in prime health and maintain fight or flight agility through regular exercise is, for the next few weeks, and maybe beyond, on hold, and our contact list grows with every mask-to-face and mask-to-mask encounter in medical facilities.
The Wider View
As the quarantine restrictions are lifted and others imposed–and opposed, by many of our fellow Mason County citizens–venturing out becomes a scary proposition., We wear our masks and continue to limit contact and shopping, but so many visits to medical facilities is problematic, as well as requiring some preliminary phone or on-line triage in the first place to get admitted. Our chiropractor relies on temperature checks to avoid exposure, but we still wear masks when treated, though many others in the waiting room, along with staff, do not.
There seems to be several different approaches to the pandemic, dividing the population into three incompatible groups:
1. Maintain mask protocols, cleaning, and social distancing rigorously to avoid contracting the virus until an effective antiviral or vaccine is readily available and effective.
2. Monitor temperatures, and isolate if possibly infected, notify contacts to check themselves also, to limit spread by only isolating known cases and their contacts. If you get sick, you will either get better or die. A vaccine or cure is too uncertain to stop the world and wait.
3. Fake News! Open the economy. If people get the virus and die, it’s better than if more people starve because there’s no work and no government relief, which they wouldn’t condone because that’s Socialism and they’d rather die than live in a Socialist country or pay taxes to help their less-fortunate neighbor get through a crisis, to keep the community together. If an elected official of the opposite political party directs an action, resist it, no matter what the consequences.
So it goes. The Second Civil War gathers momentum, but, instead of subtitled the War of Northern Aggression, this time it will be the War of Intolerable Liberalism. Racism is fighting back against the Black Lives Matter movement. Police racially-based violence is being augmented by lynchings and random attacks by white supremacists. This is finally their time, after all the shouting, gun collecting, and rallying that has been ignored by the government and even embraced by the current administration, which is no longer a democratic institution, but a textbook model of an organized crime family. As the country visibly crumbles, and isolation intensifies, former allies are shunning us, and our rivals, military and economic, consolidate power and undermine from without.
The only hope is that the environment will heal itself despite ignorance, if the inevitable significant population reduction lowers carbon emissions. Unfortunately, the ones with the guns are the ones who want to increase carbon release. But, they are also the ones without face masks, so nature holds the scales. As noted by Jared Diamond in his book of the same name, “Guns, Germs, and Steel” will determine, as subtitled, “The Fates of Human Societies.”