The world is moving too quickly to capture in words. I can't keep all the stories straight in my head as I waiver between fear and hope for humanity.
I check my phone too often. I listen to the latest news on NPR and find myself biting my nails despite the medical advice to stop touching my face. I wash my hands and am reminded of the two-minute mandatory scrub before entering the NICU to visit my son. I picture all those tiny intubated babies alongside rows of elders struggling to breathe.
I imagine being the Italian doctor forced to choose which patient receives the respirator. I sing the Happy Birthday song again and remember to scrub my wrists, the back of my hands, in-between my fingers.
On Wednesday, when I woke Elias, he sat up in bed and said: "Today is Wednesday when I would normally be volunteering at the Sea Life Center but I can't do that."
All his favorite places closed--Sea Life Center, the library, Alyeska, Teen Rec room. His coveted schedule that keeps his days in-check, all gone to shit.
Elias's lung damage and compromised immune system places him more at risk than most kids, despite his desire to continue to spend time out and about in town. Despite his need for routine.
Olive just misses her teachers, her friends, school. She misses P.E. and recess and all the social aspects of her life before the Corona virus.
My heart aches for all our kids.
Especially seniors in high school and college who find their final Spring pulled out from under them. The athletes who can't compete in their final season. The intellects eager to absorb every last drop of knowledge before their diplomas arrive. The travelers forced to return home mid-voyage. The social ones who planned on partying together as the days grew longer and now find themselves stuck at home with their parents. If they are fortunate to have a family who welcomes them home.
My heart aches for all of us in our separate houses with our similar fears. We need the solace of each other's company, but the health of our communities depends on us sitting apart.
When I tucked Olive into bed last night, I explained the concept of flattening the curve so we don't overwhelm our healthcare systems. I told her we didn't want to put our doctors and nurses in the position where they had to choose who lives and who dies.
"Would they choose the younger one?" she asked.
"Maybe. But what if the younger one was someone who made really bad choices and the older one was someone who helped lots of people? What if the older one was your grandmother?"
Olive's eyes widened and she pulled her blanket up to her chin.
My mind spins on all the worrisome what-if scenarios. What if I'm a carrier and I don't know it and i infect someone? What if Elias ends up in the hospital again? What if this lasts beyond a few months and I can't see my parents again? What if....
And yet there is this wild part of me that loves the disruption, this extra time with my husband and kids, the complete stand still of our regular busy-ness, the days blown wide open with time for walks in the middle, the chance to sleep late in the morning, the unknown of tomorrow.
Back in December of 1999, I took all my money (which was hardly any) out of the bank and packed my Subaru with extra fuel, water, food, and blankets to head out to a cabin in the woods of Maine as I waited for society as we knew it to come crashing down, when the predicted computers stopped working at midnight on the 31st.
I listened to the countdown on the radio and waited...
Nothing happened.
Instead of relief I felt disappointment.
I took a walk as soon as dawn turned night a slight haze of pink; I followed fox prints in the snow to an island in the middle of a frozen lake that I didn't see from the shore. I climbed up on a rock and watched the sun rise over the year 2000 and vowed to live differently, more in tune with nature, more compassionate, more healthy, more free.
I moved to Alaska the following summer, and twenty years later, society as we know it is coming crashing down-- but I am no-longer an unattached twenty-something cheering as the restaurants, schools, bars, and businesses close. I sit here as a mother, a school counselor, a prison volunteer, a member of a small community I love that depends on summer tourism to survive.
I worry about the families who rely on the stability of school. I worry about the health care and grocery store workers who work extra shifts for the rest of us. I worry for our small business who rely on the cruise ships and RVs that flock to this harbor town. I worry for all the seasonal workers who also call this quirky place home.
I worry. I worry. I worry. I worry.
And yet compassion, generosity, and beauty live here in Seward too, and it is no coincidence that the body of water we built around goes by the name of Resurrection Bay.
This town rose again after a devastating fire in its early years. Neighbors helped each other rebuild. Next came the massive 1964 earthquake and tsunami that decimated the homes and infrastructure close to shore. The people of Seward worked together regardless of political divisions or divergent beliefs. People always seem to emerge from crises with clearer eyes and larger hearts.
If I believe in anything it is that human beings are inherently good--even that younger patient who made bad choices.
"Mom, I wouldn't want to make that decision!" Olive said as I kissed her goodnight.
"No-one does Olive. That's why we're doing our part by staying home."
May you all find compassion, generosity, and beauty in your communities--and love each other endlessly, from six-feet apart.
