Pandemic Thoughts 3

I’m growing tired, and time stands still before me.

– Elton John, Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me

So. Story time.

I stop my car outside one of the convenience stores on my paper route. It’s about 5:00 a.m. and I’m barely stifling a stream of yawns. I keep forgetting that milky tea is as likely to put me to sleep as the caffeine in the tea is supposed to keep me awake.

For some reason, I catch sight of something dark shuffling along the paved parking lot away from the car. God help me, it’s a large, winged beetle, dragging its back legs behind it. And without a single thought, I’m talking to a crippled beetle just before sunrise.

It was a short conversation, one sided obviously. I told the beetle if it didn’t fly up onto my face – the stuff most of my insect phobias are made of – I would make a point not to run it over on my way out of the parking lot.

So it didn’t, and I didn’t. And then I told myself, it was good I didn’t harm or kill it, in case it was John Lennon or George Harrison come back to say give peace a chance. Something about entertaining angels, unawares. In that moment, I embraced a newfound Jainism.

And I finished my route, and collapsed on my sofa with moments to spare before I started teleworking at my “later in the day” job.

Irrational attempts at connecting with animals didn’t begin and end with me today, however. One of my sister-kindreds later shared a story with our group about trying to catch a “MANGY MANGY” squirrel with her bare hands in what she called a “BE MY FRIEND act of desperation” for physical contact. She conceded it was good that she didn’t. Rabies and all.

We’re an eccentric but loving bunch, what can I say?

And clearly very sleep-deprived.

Pandemic Thoughts 2

It occurred to me this morning while driving for my paper route that the time has come to update Allen Ginsberg’s Howl.

I’d start with something along the lines of, I saw the best minds of my generation collapse beneath the weight of first world problems. The pandemic will be scored by Jim Steinman and sung by Bonnie Tyler. Holding out for a hero, indeed.

The heroes of course are the essential workers. The medical personnel who have to cope daily with all kinds of shit and the aftermath of bad advice spooned out by the tin foil hatters and their dimwit leader, Donald Trump. It’s pretty bad when Lysol’s social media team has to come out with a tweet advising against human consumption of their product to cure Covid-19. No, Mr President, we do not like your sarcasm. We do not like it on a boat, we do not like it on a goat. 4 out of 5 epidemiologists agree that Dr Seuss, second only to Dr Fauci, makes perfect sense during these trying times.

I should video chat with my 3 year old granddaughter today and ask her if her thoughts on curing Covid-19 have changed. Her answer alone will be worth the smiles and laughter. She told her father that when she grows up, she’s going to be a doctor. I hope you are, darling girl, I hope you are.

I had a brief conversation with one of my newspaper customers yesterday. He happened to be opening the garage door just as I pulled up with his paper. Very kindly asked me how I’m doing. Attempt at humour followed.

No. That’s not right. I am frightened. If I take a wrong turn in my role – an essential service – as an asthmatic I could be on a ventilator in no time. He told me that he was born shortly after the end of the Second World War, and he’s lived through a lot of stuff. Never thought he’d see the day when his wife wore what amounts to a space suit to go to the bank at 5:00 a.m. to replenish their cash stores because they spent what they had to hand. Figures it will be at least another year to a year and a half before we start seeing an end to this thing.

I agreed with him. I only leave the house for work, and the rest of the time I shut out the world at home with my pets. I have come to the conclusion that there is such a thing as too much sleep. I’ve been eating what feels like my weight in junk food. If Cool Ranch Doritos are wrong, I don’t wanna be right.

Photo by icon0.com from Pexels

I don’t know how we get ahead of this mess, honestly. It’s Dickens writ large: it was the best of humanity, and was the worst of humanity. I’m sat here trying to download software updates on my work computer and my husband commented on how quiet I am, I must be lost in thought.

The revolution will be led by those who survive it. Godspeed to us all.

 

 

Pandemic Thoughts

Isolate

Isolated

Isolating

It seems like a lifetime since the middle of March, when the world as we knew it began shutting down.

It’s been one hell of a time.

My oldest son had a call back date in place for work that was scrubbed as soon as his branch of the construction industry was deemed non-essential.

My daughter and her twin brother have been home from school and recently began distance learning online. My partner’s shop closed and might start back up again the first week of May.

My toddler granddaughter has been rampaging at home ever since most of Ontario’s licensed daycare centres were added to the growing list of lockdowns, testing her father’s patience and causing me to stifle giggles. Am I heartless enough to call his reactions Grandma’s revenge?

It’s been weeks since I’ve seen my parents, who are in their early 70s. The last time I can remember such a lonely Easter was 17 years ago when SARS was the health concern and I was alone with a very ill infant in Toronto, in the pediatric critical care unit at SickKids Hospital, awaiting complex open heart surgery.

My granddaughter has the solution to Covid-19: bandaids and hotdogs.

Netflix and our pets have been constant companions this time around. My lifeline has been a Facebook Messenger group comprised of me, my sister, and three close girlfriends who have become sister-level kindreds. Most mornings the chatter begins with a posting of a photo of Adam Driver, followed by a series of GIFs of Golden Girl Blanche Devereaux spritzing herself with cold water. (Picture it: Ottawa, April of 2020.) I also sleep with my handbag, a habit born of necessity after I caught my special needs kid trying to order random crap from Amazon with my Visa debit card.

I finally attempted grocery shopping today. The store my daughter and I went to has imposed a ‘one person per household’ policy, so she went back to the car and was soon bombarded with a series of PM texts and photos from me as I bumbled through the aisles. My son texts me that my granddaughter has the solution to Covid-19: bandaids and hotdogs. I also learn that she calls Netflix “Crackflix.” Kid’s not wrong. Sometimes hotdogs are the answer, especially when they come from a chip stand.

Once this quarantine is over, if it ever ends, I think I want to load up the car and hit the road west. I have never been to the western part of Canada. The Pacific Ocean beckons.

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels