Miscellaneous
It's the day after our county issued a "Stay at Home" mandate. I'm running along a greenway on a warm March morning when I hear an alarm and a pre-recorded voice blaring near the playground at Freedom Park. The voice is instructing people to leave the playground as it has basically been deemed unsafe by health and safety, in light of the pandemic. How apocalyptic: not dangerous because of faulty, recalled, or broken equipment but because the virus can survive for up to 72 hours on hard shiny surfaces (which you would think would be the antithesis for sustaining life; although viruses are debatably living organisms…). At the tennis courts, I turn around and run back, this time closer to the playground, to catch a glimpse of what is really going on here. The siren and announcement are no longer sounding, but there are police vehicles in the parking lot, and the monkey bars, slides, and swings — which most mornings would be swarming with young healthy bodies — are completely empty. Although I am thankful for many things—for such nice weather during quarantine, for people taking measures seriously, for blue skies and warm breeze backdropping the empty play area—I can't help but notice that this, with the alarm echoing in my mind, makes for an eerie and dystopian scene. Two people whom I know well, know people who have died. A flu-like feeling sets in for a few days: low energy and feverish. They seemed to pop back for a day and tried to regain some normalcy, thinking it had passed. Then a terrible upper respiratory infection sets in. A relatively short time later, they are no longer of this world. Both were young, with no obvious pre-existing conditions. Others walk around asymptomatic, unknowing carriers of a virus that could either do nothing at all or kill you. Worrisome to say the least. Devastating at worst. As a therapist, I've heard some clients acknowledge the pandemic as “inconvenient." I've also heard things such as “It’s hard to know what stance to take,” and “I’m scared of how long this will last.” Food is necessary, and I go to the grocery store one afternoon. Tape is on the floors, measuring six feet apart. Is 6 feet really guaranteed to keep me safe? People are wearing gloves and masks, looking at each other out of the corners of their eyes as they pass each other. These looks seem suspicious to indicate, “Sorry if I'm walking around you like you might contaminate me.” The shelves are randomly bare— no beans, no paper products, no fresh meat, no ginger. I metaphorically scratch my head in solidarity with all of us who are wondering why toilet paper? I am not sure whether I am more concerned about human behavior in reaction to the pandemic than the pandemic itself. Am I an idiot for even being here? Will this be the new normal? I quickly grab a few things on my list, but the oddness of it all makes me more eager to leave than think about the fact that I will just have to return later if I don’t take the time to make sure we have what we need for the week. As human beings, we all can feel anxious—but we need uncertainty. We try to build routines and develop relationships as a means of coping—but also thriving. Frequently, people who struggle with mood also struggle with maintaining routine and developing relationships. When an outside force further exacerbates this, we all struggle immensely. This pandemic offers so much unknown and possible calamity for a potentially very long time, that even the least anxious of us might feel a heaviness in our chests when we contemplate it or try to take in the latest research and news. We need uncertainty, but this sometimes feels like too much. We set out to try to control what we can: 6 feet apart, soap and water, hand sanitizer, don’t touch your face. Suddenly everyone is a “germaphobe” and the OG’s, “original germaphobes”, don’t look so paranoid. Will this just keep happening?