Day 60
Some days you just want to remember. Sunday was one of those days. A walk in the park. A hammock nap. An afternoon shower. Sitting on the deck in the sun. Talking to a friend on the phone. Happy kids. FaceTime with GG.
Some days you wish you could forget. Like the past two. There were plenty of nice moments. A walk. A phone call with Sarah. An ice cream sundae. And plenty of frustrations, namely my brain constantly trying to make sense of the day, the time, the days ahead. For the past few days I feel like I’ve been walking on a precipice. Or, really, like my brain, the thoughts produced, are some combination of completely unwieldy with fear and uncertainty and frustration and completely laser focused on fear and uncertainty and frustration.
I don’t even know what that is supposed to mean. I don’t know how else to say it.
It’s frustrating to be working from home all the time. It’s frustrating with so much unknown everyday. It’s frustrating to know I’m doing the best that I can and also that I feel frustrated and feel I’m not doing enough.
I’ve read plenty of newspaper headlines surely meant to reassure readers that we are doing enough just by surviving. They seem to be telling us, these journalists or opinion writers, that we shouldn’t set unrealistic expectations of what we might accomplish during this time. I can’t get past the headlines, though. I’m not interested. I’m not interested in the competition to do more or the condoned lowered expectations that more is not necessary. Maybe I don’t need anyone else’s reassurance that my messy house, home-cooked meals, children sleeping late and playing basketball in the middle of the school day is enough. I know it is. But still, I’m looking for answers maybe. Or ideas. Or just a way to pass the time. I keep scanning the headlines. I keep looking for more.
But the news headlines I want to read are too overwhelming. Articles about when to open the country and why not to. About a father and son who died of the virus. Of companies that may never recover. Of an economy that is forever changed. Of universities stating that classes will be online in the fall. Of cancellations and “new clusters” and more children infected with a “rare illness tied to the virus.”
I’ve had a difficult time concentrating these past few days. And a difficult time sleeping. And I’ve already established that my thinking ability feels strained. And just writing this way is so uncomfortable. But my purpose of being in this space during this time was to record what it is like to be here. And today, yesterday, many days, this is what it has been like. Messy, disorganized, disrupted.
Worldwide cases have surpassed 4.2 million.
And cases are still going up and up and up.
Massachusetts cases total more than 79,000 with more than 5,400 deaths. The curve does appear to be flattening, with 669 new cases reported today, the lowest number since March 29, if the data in this chart in The New York Times is correct. It kind of seems too good to be true, because just two days ago the chart says more than 1,400 new cases were reported. And yet how could 669 new cases be good?
We’ve become so accustomed to taking in information in charts and graphs, customizable by region or state. Drop-down menus and interactive maps. But really, so far, the news is all devastating. And it’s going to always be devastating. Even when we are out of this — months, years from now — the toll on lives and businesses and families will be stark. Etched in us.
“Remember that time,” my kids might say to each other, years from now, when they are grown. I can only hope they don’t follow with … “when mom totally lost her mind during that pandemic.”
Stay safe, everyone.