The Numbness of Quarantine

There is a numbing monotony to each day.  I wake up and think every day is Sunday.  A day that stretches out before you with nothing to fill it. I'm not a church-goer so I don't have a virtual service to occupy me — though CBS Sunday Morning is my ritual.  I used to eagerly arise before 9 to make my coffee and breakfast before sitting down to watch Charles Kuralt, then Charles Osgood, and now, Jane Pauley.  I find comfort in its easy-going, informative, balanced mix of news, human-interest, and now, Covid-related stories.  They present the best and the worst of us in a palatable way that early in one's day.  Lately I set it to record because I don't want to wake up early.  Once the 90 minutes is over, then what?

Yes, I am structuring some of my time.  I Zoom with my quartet of Random House buddies twice a week for virtually two hours a visit.  It's great to see them and talk about this, that, and the other things, just as we did over 45 years ago over salad and baked chicken or tuna noodle casserole, mostly in Barbara's apartment. There we were, in our twenties, around her dining room table, sharing the ups, downs, puzzles and gifts of our lives. We're in our late 60s now and while the problems have changed, the challenges haven't.  Though now short on husbands, we each have our issues: with our lives, our adult children, and this pandemic.  It makes my life easier to have dear friends to commiserate with when things go wrong and cheer each other on when things go right.

Another quartet — of my college friends — has begun to Zoom weekly, but all four of us haven't been in close contact over the decades so it's more of a reacquaintance with one another.  I'm happy we've been able to "get together" despite being in four opposite corners of the country.

Yes, I'm taking an online class: Rodgers & Hammerstein — wonderfully taught, interesting and informative, and highly entertaining with clips of their wealth of songs from Oklahoma to Carousel, The King & I, and more...but it's just 75 minutes once a week and soon to end.

Unlike the industrious types, I have not cleaned a single closet.  Betsy is working her way through decades of memorabilia ("I'm in the 80s now!") happy to have the uninterrupted time to devote to reorganizing, sending along, clearing out her lifetime of papers and memories.  Or Laura who's been going through all her costume jewelry and that of her mother, grandmother, and Aunt Marion, to keep what's most dear and to get rid of the rest — some of it to me to dissect and use in a project I'm working on (haha).  I have no motivation to act.  Doing nothing is exhausting.

My kitchen is strewn (for a month now) with plastic bins filled with my summer clothing, waiting for the packing up of winter to make way in the drawers and closet.  Instead of making the shift, I just keep sifting through, pulling out what I need for the day and leaving the rest in disarray.  The dryer is filled with clean clothes for a week.  The dishwasher, run but not emptied, leads to the pile-up of dirty dishes and pots and pans crowding my double sinks.  The only thing I can motivate myself to do is cook, which involves shopping for groceries and lots of prep and then more dirty cookware and utensils.  Cooking the food makes me happy enough, but then I realize it's only me there to eat it.  I've forgotten that my pleasure in cooking comes from the communal eating, the sharing.  Yes, I do share.  I pack up and drop off to assorted family and friends, and occasionally eat together distanced outside, but then the weather must cooperate or else it's back to my home alone.

My dear best friend, my constant partner ... the TV.

As a child I was always frightened to be alone in the house.  My parents worked twelve hours a day and to allay my fear, to comfort me, I had the TV on constantly.  Being young I actually thought that when I turned on the television our living room was filled with company. It soothed me then, stayed with me through my single life, and once again, accompanies me now.   I rely on the old stand-bys: The Forsyte Saga, Friday Night Lights, The Americans, Downton Abbey, The West Wing — and newer ones: The Great British Baking Show, 13 Reasons Why, Counterpart — because watching them brings me in contact with a family.  They may not be my family, they may be a work family or a foreign family but they're families none the less and I crave being a part of some human connection.  Even though it's make-believe, I retreat into watching a screen more hours than I can count, the number of which would surely appall you.

Given my age I have been forgetful but now I'm in a fog. I never know what day it is.  I can't stick to any one thing.  I keep meaning to do things and don't.

Things are opening up.  There is even a thrift store open and one of my favorites is opening Tuesday but I'm very hesitant to go inside.  And the thrift store I've shopped in since living here almost 30 years and volunteered in for almost eight, I just learned will never re-open.  It makes sense.  Given the store's layout and the nature of the largely volunteer-driven business model, it would be too difficult to refit, socially distance, increase cleaning, and still make the expenses, let alone a profit and profit is what we are in business for.  Our proceeds fund $1M in medical and nursing scholarships a year.  Yes, you read that correctly, one million.  All because 52 years ago a group of medical wives decided to raise money and endow a scholarship fund to help those who wanted to become doctors.

Their endowment will live on thankfully, but I have lost yet another connection.  A place where I not only shopped but ran to as a refuge.  Whenever I was feeling down, alone, I'd get in my car, drive over and start marking or checking out customers for a few hours, surrounded by a bevy of women who were always welcoming and cared about me. 

                  "How was your visit with your daughter?" 

                             "What did the doctor say about the upcoming knee replacement?" 

                       "You marked that whole basket already?  MY!  You're fast!" 

It was a place to go to lift my spirits, be surrounded by activity, and feel as if I were contributing something of value.  I could even get a hug if I wanted.  Now, that door is closed.  Permanently.

Thankfully I have group therapy once a week and individual every other week via Zoom; these sessions are keeping me sane.  None answer the questions that swirl around and around in my head when I should be sleeping:

"Will I ever feel safe to go about without a mask and gloves?"

"Will I ever travel again, see New York?"

"Will I ever spoon in bed with another human being?"

I know there are no answers at this moment,  but I'm just so tired of pondering the questions in isolation.