Quarantine Life
Twenty-five days ago, we left New York City and came here to the Berkshires. We are hunkered down at my childhood country house. The five of us are here with my youngest sister, her husband, and their ten-month-old baby boy. Oh, and: We have a grand total of eight animals here with us. Our three cats and their two dogs and three cats.
We are lucky to be here. To be tucked away in a bucolic and remote spot while our hometown is under siege. As I write this, New York is the epicenter of the Covid-19 pandemic, by a long shot. Thousands are getting sick, and dying. Hospitals are running out of PPE and personnel. Manhattanites are opening their windows at 7pm each evening to celebrate health care heroes. Military is being deployed in the city. We are watching all of this unfold… from afar. I feel some guilt about this, that we fled as soon as school was canceled, and we knew things would get bad. I admire New Yorkers who stayed put, by necessity and by choice, know that they are having an entirely different experience of these days than we are.
And so here we are. A new normal unfolds. The girls are outside much of the day, a soccer ball at their feet. We go for waterfall hikes, walks in the woods. We check for ticks at night. We brave the grocery store once a week, strategize about how best to stock the pantry, the freezer, the fridge. We wave at the UPS guy through the kitchen window. Leave the boxes outside. We wash hands and Purell. We do puzzles and play board games and fly kites and make s’mores. We eat simple, but tasty home-cooked dinners. (Thanks, Hubby.) We run to the TV around 11am to see if Andrew Cuomo is on yet. I sit on the floor and look up at the screen, hang on his every word, savor the stories about his family. The girls began digital school last week, seem to be settling in.
None of this sounds terrible, and I will be the first to admit that it isn’t. I’m aware of our blessings. We are safe. We are healthy, for now. We have plenty of food. Toilet paper, for now. We have the financial means to weather this time. We are immersed in nature, which heals. We are together.
And yet. This is hard. There is pain and there is loss and there is grief. There is sadness and anxiety and fear. There is uncertainty.
I have moments when I’m fine. And I have moments when I’m the opposite of fine. I’m trying to allow myself to feel both. Yesterday morning, my husband and I sat outside around the rain-soaked fire pit and I let myself come undone. My husband asked if it would help me to write about this time, about what I’m feeling. I snapped at him, I think. Tears burned my eyes. I’m not okay. I feel like I was just beginning to feel like myself again after Mom’s death, and now this. I know we are lucky, that so many are suffering much much more, but…
And then we were interrupted, by a pajama-clad 9yo who wanted to fly the rainbow kite in the big field, by the 11yo clutching a soccer ball who wanted to work on her “move of the week.” My self-indulgent monologue was cut short; we pivoted to be with our girls. In the kitchen, I made myself yet another coffee. My guy came up to me and whispered, Let’s find some time to keep talking later.
It’s Monday again. The girls are in “school.” The sun shines brightly outside. The grass is greener than it was yesterday. I’m in my purple sweatpants, drinking my third cup of coffee. MSNBC carries on in the background.
Right now: I’m okay. That’s all I can ask for.
My husband was right. He usually is. Writing about this time helps. Writing has always helped me process things, hard things. And I’ve been resisting this truth for some reason. No more. I hope to keep writing here, about this uncommon time. Not because I believe I have anything original or wise to share. No. Because naming and honoring things, particularly the painful and messy things, feels important right now, almost essential. Because I know I will want to look back and read about who I was - and who I was becoming - during these strange, sad days.