The move forward has been so fast I can't possibly track it. Maybe in bits only.
My mother.
That was my last time sitting in her house, that day last week. She breathed a great sigh when I told her I'd changed my mind about Virginia. Then I offered to take her for a drive just to get some air. But then I never did because I could be a carrier and certainly didn't want to put her at greater risk, and I didn't see how I could wipe down my whole car with my last few wipes, or how she and I could sit in my small car six feet apart. So only calls, and food to her door. A bag of bagels, pasta dinners, chili, soups. All the Tupperware wiped down before I hand it to her. Because I never want to see anyone die from pneumonia again in my lifetime. Because she has let me know she doesn't want to die that way. Her life is not much different from how she's been living it these past several months with no car. Now I am learning to live more like she does.
Marlena.
Last Tuesday, she and her co-teachers produced a play written entirely by their students. All those children from all those many places, all standing on their school stage together, performing a play about the American Revolution. Even the students who are new to the US, from Congo and Angola, who speak Portuguese and Lingala, all stood with their classmates and sang songs they'd written together. And three days later they were told their school was closing. School by school by town by town by city by city. Colleges and universities all closing with no plan in place as to how to move forward, how to learn, how to teach. With some kids in her class who speak little to no English, who have food insecurity, who are asylum seekers and new Americans, who have no internet or computers, who are children - just children. And for her, no more of her normal life with children and singing and teaching, no more going out with friends. No more trips home just for a visit, to sit on the sofa and chat, or to cook dinner together.
Luci.
Went from classes and work to no more school just virtual classes, and avoiding work. Went from coping by exercising and doing puzzles, to a late night call of overwhelming fear, to now coping with action, not distraction. She is stronger than she knows.
Me.
I can't leave out my own arc of panic. Went from "You'll be fine!" to here, in my on house, rationing groceries. Once we got back from Florida, once they were back from Boston, I was among the unnamed many, on the lookout for Purell and toilet paper. (I've never before heard so many conversations about toilet paper, as if it were a strange, valuable currency. How many rolls do you have? I have seven. I have twelve. Get more. Steal some from work if you can.) My quick journey from daily store runs to now here in my house lighting candles to calm me began with volunteering and grocery shopping a trip to a bookstore and to the library, then to a store for jigsaw puzzles.Then I was a fanatic about grocery cart handles, wiping them down with wipes from the store, even reporting to a Hannaford produce guy - the first employee I saw - that there were none. Like reporting a crime Then thinking about my hands and that unwiped cart handle all the way through vegetables, bread, sausages and tuna before finding they had refilled the wipes again so I could concentrate. On Sunday I'd I told Tom he was fine to play pickleball. By Tuesday, I told him I thought he should stop seeing patients. I told my family I would provide dinner every night, that anyone could stop by to eat, and they did. Six days later, I'd stopped. It's just Tom and me.
As of today, there are 32 cases in Maine. Last week there were none. Close to 4,000 people have died worldwide. Museums are closed, concerts are cancelled, Broadway is dark. There is a curfew set to begin tonight in Portland. Grocery shelves are mostly empty. Flights are cancelled, travel plans are cancelled, no flights are coming or going to Europe or the UK. Restaurants are relying on take-out orders, medical supplies are unavailable, libraries and bars and gyms are closed People are all out for walks.
I can't even get into the politics of it all. It will make me angry.
We have a text thread in our family to send seekers into stores, to limit exposure to germs. We're stockpiling on soup and meds and beans and pasta.
I'm grateful it's almost spring, that days are lighter, that birds sing all around. I'm thankful for food and my home and my family and friends. I'm grateful for all of the connections I've made and that have been made with me in return, the checking-in, the warm words.
I can't imagine what this will al look like when it ends, how many people will die, how many businesses will close, how we will be able to save money again as the market has crashed. But I try not to think there.
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